Sherlock's Flash Forward
by thisRANDOMperson
Summary: The whole world blacks out and everyone has a premonition. In Sherlock's, John is gone and Moriarty has won. He's got six months to prevent the future from happening. T for violent situations. Complete!
1. The Blackout

**Quick note, the plot of the story will be based off the show Flash Forward, which you probably don't know about. I won't throw the characters in; only including the situation. It shall be grand.**

**Enjoy! :)**

Sherlock awoke with a start, hearing absolute silence.

_Think! What just happened?_ Within moments of searching through his brain, he remembered what was previously occurring. _Walking down the street headed back to the flat. Finished the case. Randy was the murderer, of course. Just one block away. But what then?_ Sherlock looked around him and observed... _Oh, right. I'm under a car. How convenient._

Screams erupted all around him, and he pulled himself out from under the car, which had crashed into a street light. Upon standing, pain shot up his right leg, and he leaned on the car to keep from collapsing. All around him, people were either dead, dying, or panicking.

_What happened?_

Sherlock felt on the verge of tearing out his brain and yelling at it to cooperate. Nothing made sense! One minute, he was headed down the sidewalk, and the next, he woke up underneath a car. What happened between those two points?

_John._

He must have been at the flat. What if this happened to him as well? What if he was injured? Ignoring the burning pain in his leg, Sherlock limped down the sidewalk, turned the corner, and arrive at Baker Street.

"John!" Sherlock burst through the door, panting. John walked out of the kitchen, a bag of ice on his left arm. "Sherlock, what happened? Are you alright?"

Sherlock swallowed and ignored the question. "What happened to your arm?"

John almost seemed to have forgotten about his arm in worrying about his friend. "Oh, right. I was making some tea, thinking you'd want some in celebration of solving the case... I had the hot pot of tea in my hand, and then suddenly I blacked out...at seven, I believe. Woke up with all the boiling water all over my arm. It's fine."

"John. This happened to everyone, including myself. It seems like all of London has blacked out simultaneously."

John eyed Sherlock's leg suspiciously, noticing that he hardly put any weight on it. "What happened to your leg? It looks bad." Sherlock ignored the comment and strode to the couch, sitting himself down. Moments later, his phone rang. It was Lestrade. He answered it.

"I already solved the case. Now what do you want?"

Lestrade sounded out of breath on the other line, and quite shocked by the comment Sherlock made. "Um, Sherlock, are you aware of what just happened?"

"You mean everyone blacking out?"

"Yeah."

"So far, it seems like this area of London all went out. I'm trying to figure out who or what did it."

"Sherlock..."

His voice was wary and almost sounded sick. He knew something. "Lestrade. What is it?"

"It's..." Lestrade's voice faded off, and a gulp was heard. "I don't quite know how to say this, but...it happened everywhere. It's a global catastrophe. At the exact same time, around the world, everyone in the world blacked out for exactly the same amount of time."

Sherlock smiled to himself, and John's brow furrowed. "Sherlock? What is it?"

Ending the phone call, Sherlock replied, "We've got the biggest case yet."

**There, chapter one. Probably a bit confusing or boring, but just wait. The next chapter will add more important information and you'll get hooked. I hope. :p Leave kind reviews and I'll see you soon! :)**


	2. Sherlock's Vision

**I prefer starting a story with the first two chapters polished and ready, then taking my time for the rest. So. Time for chapter two! Do enjoy. :)**

It took a while, but John finally got Sherlock to let him take a look at his injured leg. "I'm a doctor," he kept saying in his argument. A minute later, John got up from kneeling on the floor and sat next to Sherlock. "So a car did this, you think?"

"Yes, seeing how I woke up underneath one."

"Okay. Well, you'll be fine. The bone was nearly broken in two. I've got a leg brace in my room and you can-"

"No." Sherlock rolled the sleeve of his pants back over the leg and put his hand to his mouth, thinking. Leg braces were the least of his problems right now. He didn't feel comfortable with the whole worldwide blackout deal; he felt like someone else out there owned his mind and thoughts, and that was the least bit comforting. Suddenly, his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he answered it. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Brother? Are you all right?"

Sherlock held a groan within his throat. _Of course, here's Mycroft, pretending that he cares about me. How ever so sweet._ "Yes, I'm fine. What do you want?"

"Well, I can only assume you'll be investigating this blackout, as people are calling it currently."

"Correct. And, speaking of which, have any of you figured out the cause, or already know of it?"

"No, we're working on it now. The Americans assume the Chinese did it, because they were already sleeping when it happened. The Americans think they will use this time of great panic to attack them."

"Good deduction, but I doubt the Chinese could cause something so great." Sherlock's leg began throbbing, and he almost considered the leg brace. Almost, that is.

"Since we're on the subject," Mycroft began again, "what did you see?"

"What did I see when?"

"In your flash forward. You did have one, didn't you?"

"Flash forward?"

"Yes, that's what they're calling them. The dream you had when you were unconscious. Please tell me that you had one as well."

It all hit Sherlock at once. He never dreamed, not when he slept rough or even when sleeping ever so deeply. He never dreamed, or at least he wouldn't remember having any. However, upon blacking out, he had even more than a dream. He forgot that he had dreamed, but hearing Mycroft mentioning it caused him to remember suddenly.

_Just as Sherlock went unconscious in the blackout, he found himself - rather, dreamt himself - standing in a cold, dark room, unfamiliar to him. The emotions in him were tearing himself apart - anger, sadness, a broken heart. These emotions, though quite foreign, were more powerful than a hurricane in Sherlock's heart. He was standing next to a body, one of which did not face him, therefore he didn't know who he was. In the dream, though, he did know, and that's what caused the powerful feelings. He was taking the body's pulse, revealing that he was dead. Standing up, Sherlock laughed to himself, a laugh that was not in the least bit amused. Turning around, he could see a figure in the shadows that turned and walked through a door. Sherlock ran after him for a little while until, finally, they were alone in another large room. Enough light showed his face._

_ "Moriarty," Sherlock muttered. "You've won, haven't you?"_

_ Jim smiled what appeared to be a friendly smile, but they both knew better. "I told you, didn't I? I _told _you. When we first met, remember? I promised to burn the heart out of you, and I did. Who do you have now?"_

_ Sherlock was hardly even breathing. "Then why don't you just kill me now? You'll feel better, having defeated my soul and mind as well."_

_ "Sherlock!" Someone shouted somewhere in the building. Sherlock smiled. _Oh, Lestrade, _he thought to himself. _I knew you would always care. Idiot.

_ "Killing you? You need to remember who I am!" Jim grinned wildly and patted his chest. "I'm going to do more than that. I'll be keeping you, Sherlock. I'll break every bone in your body, I'll make you _scream._ And as I do this, I'll remind you of who you killed. Every single day I'll remind you that you -"_

Then, Sherlock woke up under a car.

"Yes, Mycroft. I did."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "If you're looking at the news, and I know that you aren't, everyone had a dream during the blackout, and if they could see the date, they'd notice it happened six months from now, on April 29th. Did this happen to you?"

"I don't recall seeing the date. You know I don't keep track of that anyway."

"Right, right." Mycroft sighed lightly, and Sherlock knew he was very uptight with the situation. "People call them flash forwards because, well, they all happened in the future at the exact same time and exact same date. It's starting to be believed that we saw our futures in six months. People also believe that anyone who didn't dream, because some people didn't, will be dead by then."

Sherlock nodded. "Makes sense. Call me when you get more information." Before Mycroft could protest, Sherlock hung up and looked at John, who seemed curious in the conversation. "What about these flash forwards I heard you say?"

Sherlock glared at his phone while he spoke. "All the dreams that everyone had are being called flash forwards because they all occurred in the future."

"Dreams?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked over at John. "Didn't you have one?"

John closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Um...no, I was just... There wasn't anything. I blacked out and then woke up, nothing else."

A small wave of panic came across Sherlock's expression, but he pushed it aside. "That's strange. You weren't even in my dream."

"Really?"

"Indeed." Sherlock stared at his phone again, expecting something. "You know, people assume that those without having dreams will be dead by then."

John nodded, looking at the coffee table. "I can see why."

Finally, Sherlock almost felt satisfaction in him when his phone notified a received text. He picked it up and read it, already knowing who it was.

_**Optimists always say that dreams come true. Nightmares too, Sherlock. On my way, and don't bother running. :-)**_

_**-JM**_

"Who's that?" John asked. Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket, staring at the table. "Go get the milk. We've got company."

John didn't even bother arguing; he never won the milk fights. He grabbed his coat and walked out, and Sherlock eyed him as he left. _This should be fun,_ he thought to himself, and rested his feet on the table. _So very fun._

**Boom. :) This chapter was a bit longer than I'd expected to make it, but I hope you liked it! I can't tell you when chapter three will be up. I'll work on it tonight for a little while but I have to get up for UIL and I'll be gone for quite a while tomorrow. I'll do it as fast as I can! Review happiness and rainbows. :)**


	3. Moriarty's Threat

**It's weird but I can't search for this story. I type in the title and it says it just doesn't exist. Tell me what to do? :(**

**Chapter three time! Do enjoy. :D**

Outside, the streets were mostly quiet, except for the few police cars that still remained after the chaos all around. Crashed cars were towed and glass was swept off the sidewalk. It would take quite a while for things to go back to normal.

At 221B Baker Street, a man unfamiliar to the general public opened the door and stepped in. The stairs creaked underneath him as he ascended the wooden staircase. At the top, finally, he reached the living room of the flat.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyed Jim carefully, watching for any suspicious movement that he may show. No extra bulging in his jacket pocket or trousers showed any signs of a weapon, and his hands held nothing in them. _Just a talk then, I presume._ Sherlock stood up from the couch and went to the other side of the room, sitting in his favorite chair. He motioned for Jim to sit across from him. "I have a feeling of why you decided to come," he said to him as he sat down.

"Yes, of course." Jim smiled to himself. "I honestly didn't know quite when I would destroy your world. I've built up a plan but didn't know how to start it, or when, for that matter. But my flash forward..." He closed his eyes and laughed such a fake laugh. "I don't even have to tell you, do I? Because you had the same one, now didn't you?"

"A strange building," Sherlock agreed. "One I haven't ventured through. I believe you just murdered someone."

"I know who," Jim smiled. "In fact, as you may recall, I told you that _you_ were the killer."

"I know that I wasn't." Sherlock almost had to remind himself of the wave of sickened and heartbroken emotions that cupped his heart in the flash forward. "I have my own proof."

"I bet you're wondering what I was going to say." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his way of asking for elaboration. "You know what I mean, Sherlock," Jim continued. "'Every single day I'll remind you that you...?' I wonder how that sentence was going to end, but I guess we'll find out together in six months, won't we?"

Sherlock's leg began to ache.

"I'm pretty sure we didn't actually see the future."

"Oh, really?" Jim stood up. "We both had the same exact flash forward, didn't we? People have been connecting with their flash forwards because they were in them together. More and more people will connect, and you know what?" He stood up from his seat and glared down at his nemesis. "They can't prevent what's coming."

Sherlock stood up, leaning on his left leg. He stared eye to eye at his greatest enemy, almost into his soul. "Who did you kill?"

Jim got closer, an evil smile growing on his triumphant face. "We'll see."

At this moment, Sherlock heard footsteps growing louder. "I'm back, Sher..." As he stepped into the room, his words disintegrated at the sight of the man who kidnapped him and tried to blow him up. "Oh."

"Hey Johnny-boy!" Jim greeted cheerfully, darting his focus away from Sherlock. "Got milk?"

"Uh..." John stared at Sherlock, who stared at Jim. A few moments were spent in an awkward silence.

"Well, I've got things to do," Jim finally declared. "I have things to steal and lives to corrupt. See you in six months, Sherlock!" He winked, and moved past John to leave.

When it was clear that he was gone, John headed to the kitchen to put away the milk. "Okay, Sherlock," he began. "Why was the maniac here?"

"We shared a flash forward." Sherlock glared into the fireplace, a hundred things on his mind. "He's very much determined to destroy me fairly soon."

"Well, is that what he did in your flash forward thing?"

Sherlock hated being wrong, hated losing, hated any form of defeat. It was the one thing he always ran from his whole life. Especially, though, he hated the idea of John seeing him lose. He therefore refused to answer. "Are you sure you didn't see anything during the blackout?"

John spread some jam on a slice of bread, thinking. "Nope. Who knows? Maybe I'll be asleep six months from now." He looked down at his snack. "Damn, I always put on too much jam..."

"And if you aren't asleep?" Sherlock questioned.

John knew what Sherlock was referring to, and he had thought about it more than he chose to show, but death was not a concern of his, not if it saved Sherlock. "I'll be sleeping, Sherlock. Just leave it at that, would you?" Suddenly his phone rang, and he answered. "Hello? Yes, it is, who...? Oh, God..."

Sherlock stared, interested in the conversation.

"Oh, no, it's just... Oh. This is terrible... Yes, thanks... Thank you." He hung up, and looked up to Sherlock sadly. "It's Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "What happened?"

"She..." He gulped, trying to find words. "She was in an accident, Sherlock. She was in a car when the blackout happened and another car slammed into hers, on her side... She's in a bad way."

"Where is she?"

"A hospital in Cardiff. If you'll remember she was going to visit her sister."

"Has her sister visited her since the accident?"

"No..." John ignored his snack and sat on the chair by the fireplace. "Her sister was in a different part of the town when it happened, and she fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Mrs. Hudson is still unconscious. She doesn't even know that the last of her family is dead..." He leaned over in his seat and put his face in his hands. Sherlock sat back down on the other chair. "That will be a tragedy to wake up to."

"If she ever does wake up..."

"Don't think like that," Sherlock commanded. "She's a fighter. You know that."

John nodded. He would make sure they visited her sometime soon. "You know what, Sherlock?"

"Probably."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm quite interested in the fact that you seem to only care about what you saw in your flash forward. I expected you to only focus on what caused the blackout."

"I'm interested in both," Sherlock lied. "And I'm positive I'll figure them out easily."

Rain pattered on the roof, and no more was said for the rest of the night. They turned on the television and listened to the news and what everyone had to say about their flash forwards. Later in the evening it was announced that a website would be launched where people could describe what they saw and connect with anyone they didn't presently know, but knew in the flash forward. John planned on logging on the next day to see if anyone knew why he didn't see anything. Maybe he could find out what caused a lack of seeing anything, and maybe, just maybe, he could prevent something terrible happening.

**Yeah, nothing much happened. The next chapter may be a little boring as well as I try to plan out how to get these events in my head started. I want this to be one of those long stories, because I know I love reading them. Anyway, I'm going to go watch Sherlock as I relax. :p P.S. If you recognized something from John and his jam, I automatically love you. XD Laters!**


	4. Don't Tell Sherlock

**I'm jittering from my coffee which will probably get me to think of ideas. Don't expect a major event in this chapter, but it will be somewhat happy and sad.**

**Quick note: I've watched Flash Forward, but not all of it. I don't know what caused the blackout or anything like that. I'm mainly focusing on what Sherlock saw and such. I'll keep watching it though, and maybe at the end of my story, I'll let anyone interested know what happened.**

**Chapter four. Enjoy! :)**

The next morning, John cracked his knuckles and began typing on his blog.

_**For anyone interested in the last case Sherlock and I had, Randy the window cleaner was the killer. I have very little information, and will probably have few views on this post anyway, for people are mourning those that they lost in the blackout. My suggestion is to stay indoors for a while. Millions were killed by cars or planes, and in case this is to happen again, stay away from them.**_

_** Sherlock and I are fine. He nearly broke his leg. Actually, a car almost crushed him. He was lucky to be right where he was when it happened. As for Mrs. Hudson, she's in a hospital. She was in a car accident when the blackout happened. I'm going to go with Sherlock to visit her this evening. Also, Harry, if you're reading this, give me a call to assure me that you're alright.**_

_** I don't know what everyone saw, but for me there was nothing. Sherlock knows that the theory is if you didn't see anything, you'll be dead in six month's time. He acts like he doesn't care, but sometimes I notice him glance at me, like he's making sure I don't do something stupid to result in my death. I'll be fine though.**_

__He didn't believe that, but it didn't matter to him.

_**Anyway, I'll be entering a post on the Mosaic website to find out if anyone knows where I am going to be in six months. I wish you all the best of luck, and you are in my prayers.**_

__"I'm not worried." John jumped when Sherlock appeared behind him suddenly, peering over his shoulder. "Of course you'll be fine."

"Yes, I know... It's for reader's entertainment. I know you don't care." John entered the post and went to the Mosaic website. A window popped up where he could type in his story. "Would you like to post something on the website?"

"I know everything I need to know," Sherlock replied, straightening up and going to the kitchen. "I spoke to Moriarty. Lestrade was in the flash forward as well. If he needs to speak to me about it then he will."

"If you insist," John answered, and began typing.

_**Hello, my name is John Watson. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan. In the blackout, I didn't see anything. I'd like to know if anyone knows why.**_

Nothing much was needed to be said, so he left it at that and clicked "Enter". Then he waited.

"You aren't going to wait there all day, are you?" Sherlock returned to his side, chewing on a slice of buttered bread. "I would expect it to take a while."

"400 million entries on the website," John declared. "It's increasing by the second. It shouldn't take too long for a result." He refreshed the page, and it showed that his story had a comment. "Look at that," he snickered. "I was right."

He clicked on the comment.

_**You need to call me right now.**_

_** -DI Lestrade**_

__Sherlock felt like his stomach shifted. He remembered in his flash forward that Lestrade was there, looking for him. When he called for Sherlock, he heard panic in his voice. Something was wrong. He also remembered that it sounded like Lestrade was in the room where the body was. And now, Lestrade was desperate to talk to John about his flash forward...

"But I'm sure it's fine," Sherlock thought.

"Sorry?" John pulled out his phone and looked up at his flatmate. "What's fine?"

"Sorry," Sherlock answered, going to his chair. "Thinking aloud."

John dialed Lestrade's number and he answered almost immediately. "Didn't think you would actually call," he said.

"You seem desperate for my attention," John answered. "This is about my flash forward - rather, me not having one."

Lestrade hesitated on the other line. "Is Sherlock there?"

"Yes."

"Go somewhere where he can't hear you."

"Um..." John stood up and started for the stairs. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Private conversation," John answered. "I'll be down in a minute." He went up the stairs before Sherlock could say anything, and closed his bedroom door. "I'm alone."

Lestrade took a shaky breath. "In my flash forward, I was looking for you and Sherlock. I don't know why, but I was scared out of my mind. Something must have happened." He sighed and continued. "I went to this building - an abandoned building that used to make water tanks, food tanks, things like that. Smith Tank I believe it was called. When I got inside the building with some officers, we found you..." He paused. John's heart skipped a beat. "What did you find, Greg?"

Lestrade swallowed rough. "You were in one of the larger rooms. You were lying on the floor..." Another pause. "You weren't breathing or anything, and there was a dart in your neck... You were covered in all sorts of other bruises and cuts. They carried you off to the ambulance outside in hopes of saving you before you really were gone, probably going to shock your heart and give you CPR. It was possible because you hadn't been dead for that long. I looked around for Sherlock. I yelled for him, too. I began going through and searching, and then...I woke up."

John sat on his bed, numb. "So I _will_ be dead, then."

"There's a chance that the officers and doctors did save you, and now that I know where you're going to be, I can find you and help you before it's too late. And now that you know what will happen, or what _can_ happen, you can be sure to keep it from actually happening. The future isn't actually written."

"Do you know why you were scared or why you were trying to find us?" John asked.

"I'll ask the other officers if they know, because I know which ones I saw in my flash forward. I promise to figure it out." He sighed big. "Look, just don't tell Sherlock about this. He cares about you more than he's willing to show. Let him think you'll be alright. That way, he can watch out for himself as time moves on to six months, and I'll be watching after you."

John hated having to hide things from Sherlock, but it made sense. It had to be done. If Sherlock focused on protecting him, then he would forget to look after himself, and he may end up the dead one. "Yes, alright. I won't tell him.

"Thank you."

When John got back downstairs, of course, Sherlock demanded to know what Lestrade said. "I'm going to be fine," John lied. "In his flash forward, he tried to call me but I was asleep. I told you."

"You're such a bad liar," Sherlock almost said. Instead, he smiled. "That's good, then. One less thing I need to worry about."

The hospital in Cardiff was rather crowded, seeing how thousands of people were injured in that part of town when the blackout occurred. Moans and cries of pain filled John's ears, and he was sadly reminded of his days in the war.

When they got to Mrs. Hudson's room, it broke his heart. Seeing his favorite landlady hooked up to all that machinery struck him. She hadn't been awake for long, but she was relieved to see John and Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson," John greeted with a tiny smile, kneeling by her bed and squeezing her hand gently. "I'm so sorry about this happening."

Her breaths were short. "It's alright, John... I'm just so happy to have a visitor. Do you know if my sister is alright? I haven't seen her."

John looked up at Sherlock, who only looked at the floor. He would refuse to tell her. John, with a sigh, admitted, "Something... Something happened to her, Mrs. Hudson. She..." Mrs. Hudson already knew what he would say, what happened to her only sister. "She fell down a flight of stairs when the blackout happened."

Mrs. Hudson stared at her blanket, deep in thought. "Oh." Then, to everyone's surprise, she smiled. "She always said I would outlive her any day."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock finally spoke. Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, tears in her eyes but still smiling. "Of course, dear. It had to happen someday. We were both growing old."

John held her frail hands. "Mrs. Hudson, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, dear."

He looked her in the eye. "When the blackout happened, did you dream?"

The three seconds it took for her to answer were more like three hours of dreaded silence to John and Sherlock. _If she says no,_ John thought, _I fear this is her deathbed. At least we could be prepared for her demise, but nonetheless, if she does say no, we can't tell her it means she'll be gone._

"I did," she answered.

The two men sighed with relief.

"I was in my own flat," Mrs. Hudson continued. "I was all better. Strangely, though, it was the 29th of April, and you boys weren't around." She squeezed John's hand. "Am I going to be alright?"

John grinned at her. "You'll be great, Mrs. Hudson. You're a fighter. You'll be out of this hospital soon."

Nothing in the world could make him happier at that time to tell someone the truth, to tell them they _will_ survive.

**Way longer than I had planned, yet again. :p The next chapter may be eventful, and will probably have a bit of a time leap but I'll let you know if that happens. :)**


	5. New Year Present

**I just watched some of Supernatural for the first time. Way too scary for me though. :( Anyway, here's chapter five! There's a time leap by the way; begins on New Year's Eve. :D**

On October 6th, the planet blacked out for two minutes and seventeen seconds. The whole world saw the future.

For many people, they saw something terrible that would happen. Maybe an innocent woman saw herself getting arrested, or an unfaithful man was put out on his own by his wife, due to being caught cheating. For some, however, they saw something positive. Some young men saw themselves in love with a woman, and used the Mosaic website to connect. A family struggling to keep the house might have seen them with enough money to not only keep the house but to buy school supplies for the kids and put dinner on the table. Some people, like John Watson, saw nothing.

_"You were lying on the floor... You weren't breathing or anything... You were covered in all sorts of other bruises and cuts."_

Lestrade's voice kept ringing in John's ears. _Why should I be so worried?_ He constantly thought to himself. _Death never scares me._

_ Then again, being dead means I have to leave all this behind. I have to leave Sherlock on his own._

Instead of thinking about the future, he enjoyed the cold air refreshing his lungs just before returning to his flat.

"Hey, Sherlock." He removed his coat and placed it on the hanger. Sherlock, still wearing his pajamas and blue robe, dashed about the room, looking from his Macbook to his papers to an apple he was eating. The room was a mess. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"Working on a case!" He bit into his apple as he tossed his papers aside, returning to the Macbook.

"Another one?" John approached him, looking at the screen. A news story was up: _Death Of London Lawyer Remains Unsolved._ "This happened two weeks ago," John aired. "Why do you care now?"

"I had quite an epiphany while showering," Sherlock answered, his speech unclear from chewing on his fruit. "It's a good place to have those. You were lucky to have gone. Clothes were the last thing on my mind when I dashed out of the shower and into the living room."

"Okay, Sherlock, I don't want to hear all about your...shower epiphanies." John shook his head. "What did you find?"

"Well, most of the police believe it was a suicide, right? Through deduction, however, I managed to get some ideas." He bit into his apple and dialed a number on his phone. "The woman Margaret was the killer, I'm certain."

"Reasonable hypothesis," John remarked. "It makes sense, but you could be wrong."

"Yes, I could." He dialed the number and put his phone to his ear. "But how often does that happen?" he added with a smirk. "Lestrade, check Margaret's powder that I noticed on her jacket pocket. No, don't... You need to analyze it right now. Yeah. Trust me. Just trust me!" He hung up and smiled satisfactorily. "I win."

John laughed and shook his head when the sound of breaking glass caught his attention abruptly. A small box-looking object was thrown into their window, with a note attached. "What the..." John picked it up and read it aloud. "You have twenty-nine seconds. Grab what you can and run!" John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. "Oh God." He tossed the box to Sherlock who, after finding no way to shut the bomb off, also dashed about in a panic, placing the box on the table.

It took fifteen seconds for John to get some things that were necessary for survival, and looked around for Sherlock before running out. "Come on, Sherlock!" he shouted desperately. Without a moment to wait, he dashed down the steps and into Mrs. Hudson's flat. "What's all the racket - oof!" She groaned when John lifted her up with one arm and slung her over his shoulder. Before going out the main door, he yelled for Sherlock again. _Dammit, what the hell is he doing at a time like this?_ He ran out and set a very confused Mrs. Hudson on the other side of the street. "The whole place is about to explode," he explained. "I'm sorry, but I need to leave you here and go back in. Here's my phone. Call the police, tell them to get over here." He smiled sadly and ran back in.

_Why hasn't the bomb exploded yet? It's been well over twenty-nine seconds._ When he got up to his flat, his eyes began to water and he coughed. The whole room was absorbed in smoke. The smell and his reaction to it struck him as familiar; he knew this smoke. Enemies used it against him in his war days. The eyes would water and the smoke scratched the lungs; enough exposure would cause the victim to go unconscious, and even more exposure could cause death. He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket and put it to his nose, trying to block it out.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, although his speech was muffled. He wasn't in the kitchen or anywhere in the living room, so he dashed to his bedroom. There he found him, lying unconscious on the floor. John kneeled down to him and shook on his shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up! Please wake up. Come on..." Finally, he gave up, and slung Sherlock over his shoulder, grabbing a bag that Sherlock had with him before passing out.

When they got outside, Lestrade was already out there with police cars and an ambulance. John was on the verge of fainting from so much inhalation of the gas.

"Oh God, Sherlock." Lestrade offered to help John carry Sherlock to the ambulance to revive him. The officers inside put an oxygen mask on him, and John took his pulse. "It's light and slow, but he'll be fine. He'll need a lot of oxygen." He leaned against a police car, Lestrade following. "Not the best thing to happen on New Year's Eve, is it?" he sighed to John. "But then again, nothing really good has happened since the blackout."

"Very true," John answered, lost in his thoughts.

Lestrade examined him carefully. "You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You don't look like it. Do you know who did this?"

John closed his bloodshot eyes. "I know exactly who, and I know he's not quite done yet."

**I don't know if there's an actual gas that does that, but hey, if I needed facts, this wouldn't be FanFiction. :p I'm surprised I had time to type this up. I'll be busy working with our next issue in newspaper, due to losing a work week from Spring Break. But we're shortening the pages so I'll squeeze time in for you guys. :) Review, my dearies! And don't be insulting. It's not my division.**


	6. Hospital Nightmares

**Okay, so I just want to let my readers know that I go with the theory that John and Sherlock are lovers, but I don't like to think of them loving each other in a sexual way. They're not a physical couple, but they're so much more than friends.**

**Enjoy.**

_Sherlock was back in the building, staring down at a body below him. The man had been shot and stabbed multiple times and in multiple areas, and a puddle of blood lay beneath him. Sherlock knew who this was. He kneeled down, dread spreading in him, a wildfire of painful dread. A hand on the shoulder, he rolled the dying man over. "John," he aired, not in the least bit surprised._

_ The scene suddenly changed, and he now watched doctors perform CPR on John, without success. Lestrade stood with Sherlock and side-glanced at him worriedly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock..." The machines beeped long and loud, and his best friend - his _only_ friend - was really and truly gone._

_ Finally, at the end of the twisted nightmare, Sherlock stared down at John's grave. He cried. Sherlock never cried; he only cried when he was a child and dealt with rough times with his father, or only shed tears when he accidentally took too much of his drugs which resulted in violent seizures. He never cried at the loss of a family member or a friend, because there was no need to. "Mourning the dead doesn't bring them back, now does it?" he always remarked. But John... John wasn't a friend. He grew to be so much more in Sherlock's heart._

_ So much that it hurt._

His teary eyes shot open, and he immediately leaned up in the bed. _Smell, my clothes, noises all around - damn, I'm in the hospital._ As his blurred vision began to focus, he heard John's voice and felt his hand on his wrist. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock coughed roughly, his throat burning. "What happened? Why am I in a hospital bed?" His vision cleared and he looked up at John, who leaned over him, worry written all over his face. He looked from Sherlock to the machinery he was hooked up to. "That bomb emitted gas," he informed. "You were exposed to it for quite a while, and you passed out. You'll need a lot of sleep, and your eyesight won't be spot on for a little. Your lungs won't feel better for a few days."

"Lovely," Sherlock answered sarcastically, lying back down. John didn't take his eyes off him, and he grew annoyed. "What are you staring at?"

John looked taken back, and his eyes fluttered. He sat back down on his chair next to the hospital bed. "Oh, nothing, it's just...nothing."

"What?"

"Well, you're..." He pointed at Sherlock's face. "You had a nightmare and you wept in your sleep."

Sherlock put a hand to his face and felt tears. "Oh, right." He wiped them away with his sleeve. "Yes, thank you for the reminder."

John nodded and rested his chin on his knuckles. "What did you dream about?"

Sherlock fondled with the blanket he lied underneath. "I don't remember. Can I use your phone really quick?" John handed it to him, and Sherlock glared at the keys that danced around the tiny keypad. He blinked, but they didn't stop. "Damn," he cursed under his breath, but began to type anyway. When he was done, he handed it to John. "Read it aloud to me. I found it hard to see the small keys."

John squinted and read it. "Got yofe pewswnt, initials SJ. What does that mean?"

Sherlock groaned. "It needs to say 'Got your present,' initials SH. Type and send it, please." As John did so, he asked, "So Moriarty did this, correct?"

"Obviously."

"Have you figured out why?"

"It's really simple, John. He runs us out of our home, our cave, but he didn't blow it up, not immediately at least. We may have grabbed emergency supplies but there are things in that flat that are important, and it would be impossible to recognize and snatch all of it within twenty-nine seconds. So he runs us out with something simple like a stink bomb, and I can assure you that before I am out of this hospital and before any of the gas is cleared, the flat will 'mysteriously' catch fire and we'll be reduced to living somewhere else, God knows where."

"Um, okay." John sighed heavily. "Why is he keeping us from home?"

"That's what you do, John. To catch prey, you keep it from getting to its safest place. You keep the mad scientist out of his mad lab. Next, you start picking away at others so that the prey can't go anywhere else. The prey is reduced to hiding in a corner, and that's when he'll...'burn' me."

"Did he in the flash forward?"

Sherlock looked at him, wishing he could tell him that he didn't. That would be a lie, though, and he didn't want the last thing he'd ever get to tell John to be a lie.

He didn't respond.

**Shorter one. Not much time. TAKS tomorrow. Elementary, but I still need time to think. Next chapter to be eventful. Review. :)**


	7. If Caring Could Save the World

**Oh my gosh, I have been way busy lately. I'm so sorry for not updating. Blame the Internet going out for a whole two days for no reason whatsoever.**

**Anyway, here's chapter seven. Haven't thought up a title yet, but I will by the time you're reading this. :p Enjoy!**

As Sherlock correctly predicted, just upon leaving the hospital they were told that their whole flat went into a blaze randomly and that they couldn't live there anymore until it was rebuilt, which would obviously take quite a while.

"When did this happen?" John asked Lestrade.

"It wasn't long after the smoke bomb. No one saw anyone go in or out, so I'm guessing it was an accident."

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, "unless someone planned out quite a smooth trick, being unnoticed by anyone and leaving without a trace."

Outside, the sky threatened a snow storm. The cold air smelled crisp and clean. Not many people were out currently; most were at home, preparing to celebrate a brand new year. Sherlock leaned on John, his balance not accurate yet. The world swirled around him. Feeling drugged hardly mattered at a time like this, though. "Where is Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock slurred.

"Yeah," John realized suddenly. "When the stink bomb arrived I took her outside and told her to call the police with my phone. Obviously she did, but I haven't seen her since."

"I never saw her," Lestrade commented. "She called us, but I didn't see her after that, except for when she delivered your phone to me. I asked where she was going and she said she'd be right back." Naturally he looked around him, as though he may see her. "But since then I haven't seen her."

At the thought of Mrs. Hudson going missing, John grew very worried, and he looked up at Sherlock. "Odd, isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked his green eyes and held his hand out, silently requesting John's phone. "Most peculiar indeed." John handed him the phone and Sherlock looked at the only received message.

_**Very good. I hope my point is being made. Too bad your favorite landlady won't be around to watch over you anymore! :-)**_

_**-JM**_

Anger flared in Sherlock. Jim had kidnapped her and intended to kill her, more than likely. Unfortunately, there was no way that Sherlock or John could help her because they didn't even know where Jim was. A memory interrupted his thoughts, and he struggled to type a response, but smiled in the process.

_**Thatd all good and wel, but she haf a flash foeward. She will b alive.**_

_**-SH**_

Sherlock looked up from the phone to see that Lestrade had left. "Where did he go?"

"He left a couple of minutes ago," John remarked. "He asked if you were alright but you were texting."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock looked around him. "So what do we do now?"

"I'm the one who asks that question," John answered. "I was hoping that you could tell me."

"We need a hideout," Sherlock mused. "The flat is gone and Mrs. Hudson is in Moriarty's loving care. Perhaps a hotel -"

"Wait, _what?_" John let go of Sherlock, who nearly fell at the surprising movement. "That maniac _kidnapped_ her?"

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. "Yes, he admitted it in textual format, but throwing a tantrum isn't going to save her, now is it?"

John only stared at Sherlock. "You're terrible, you're just... How can you not care in the slightest that she could be in massive pain at this exact moment?"

"Well," Sherlock spat back, "caring would make her all better and bring her back, now wouldn't it! You stupid people all think that tears can save the world when in reality, it does nothing to benefit anyone. It only annoys people like me, the ones with common sense and detachment from such useless and distracting emotions. She's my landlady and nothing more, therefore I choose not to care. You should try it sometime, John, and maybe the world will look upon you in a kinder way."

He stopped himself from saying any more. Why was he being like this? John wasn't stupid; he was foolish for his consistent caring of others in danger, but John Watson could never be classified as stupid. Sherlock swallowed and glanced at his friend, who simply glared back, his small arms crossed.

"I've upset you, John."

He nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"You're stupid if you're sorry, then," John answered, and quickly whistled for a cab. One pulled to the sidewalk. Before getting in, he turned to Sherlock. "The only reason I'm letting you join me is because you haven't recovered yet. Otherwise I'd let you bunk with your homeless network. Now come on," he instructed, muttering a street name to the cabby. Sherlock hopped in as well, the urge to receive a long night's rest overtaking him.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

"Two rooms, please." John requested to the woman at the counter as he pulled his worn wallet from his jacket pocket. John examined her, finding her quite attractive, noticing her tag that read "Lily." She looked probably about twenty-five. She noticed him looking at her and smiled gently, her rosy cheeks getting pinker immediately. Sherlock, who had his back turned to her as he leaned on the counter, felt a spark of envy within his chest. _Why would I be jealous that he's looking at another woman?_

"Oh, sorry," she sighed, looking back at the computer screen. "We've got a lot of people in. We don't even have two individual rooms available." She scrolled the computer mouse, searching. "I can hook you up with a double-bed single, if that's alright with you."

John clenched his fist underneath the counter. _Dear God, I have to sleep in the same room as that man, that pathetic bastard. I am hardly in the mood for something like that._ Instead, he smiled at her kindly. "That will do, thanks." Sherlock watched as he opened his wallet. "I can pay," he protested quickly. "Don't worry about it," John answered with a dull tone. Clearly he remained angry towards him.

The room was very nice. The carpet was a dark patterned green, and the comforters that held the bed were a deep red. A small television stood upon a table on the left side of the room. The two men were satisfied with the deal. "Alright," John confirmed to himself, setting his bag down upon the bed on the left. Sherlock tossed his bag carelessly next to the other, and laid down immediately. The softness of the mattress caressed him warmly, and he sighed with relief. For once, he actually _wanted_ to sleep.

"Aren't you going to change?" John questioned as he grabbed a clean set of clothes from his own bag.

"Too tired," Sherlock slurred. "Tomorrow." After saying so, he fell into a deep sleep.

John brushed his teeth and came out of the room, finding that Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. _Sleeping very deep, then,_ he thought to himself. He approached his friend and slowly lifted the covers over him, praying that he not wake him. He observed the sleeping man before sitting on his own bed.

"_She's my landlady and nothing more, therefore I choose not to care," Sherlock almost yelled. The anger raging inside him was almost unbelievable. "You should try it sometime, John, and maybe the world will look upon you in a kinder way."_

John rubbed his tired face, Sherlock's words ringing in his ears repeatedly.

He wouldn't be able to sleep until he knew that Mrs. Hudson was safe.

Outside, the bells started clanging. _12:00. A brand new year._ John stood up, deciding to put his regular clothes back on. He wrote a note on the notepad by the table for Sherlock to read in the morning in case he didn't make it back in time. After changing, he put his shoes on and headed out.

_A brand new year. The year I'm going to die._

**It's currently 12:00 here, but it's not a brand new year. :p Again, I'm sorry for the prolonged chapter update. The next one will not take nearly as long. I still feel bad though. :[ I will work on the next one tomorrow, but I may not be quick enough to publish it then. I have a concert to go to, so. Yeah. Review! :)**


	8. Early Morning Searches

**Feeling a lot of satisfaction from just eating for the first time all day and having had a wonderful time with my friends earlier, I shall now relax with this cool stuffs called FanFiction. I'm the story teller. It's on DVD.**

**Do enjoy.**

At 4:28, Sherlock woke up in a fright from a terrifying nightmare which he forgot immediately. As he sat up in bed, his body trembled and he wiped sweat from his forehead. He quieted his breathing and listened. It was far too silent in the room.

Turning on the light, he discovered that John must have left - in fact, seeing how the bed remained practically untouched, he must not have gotten in bed before deciding to leave.

_Perhaps in the lobby, chatting with that Lily girl,_ Sherlock pondered. _Maybe out to get coffee._

That idea left his mind when he noticed the digital clock on the small table, now changing to 4:29.

_No one goes for coffee or flirts at this hour._

Noticing a small amount of writing on the pad next to the lamp, Sherlock picked it up and read it. His vision had cleared up a bit, and found it only mildly difficult to read.

_Sherlock - If you are to read this before I return, then don't worry. Since you don't care enough to search for Mrs. Hudson, I've decided to look for her on my own. I will feel no satisfaction until her safety is no longer compromised. -John_

Sherlock smiled to himself, grabbing the room key and standing up. _Good old doctor Watson._

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

Sherlock was greeted outside by an icy patch which he managed to ungracefully slip on. Upon collision with the ground, laying on his back in front of the hotel, he found it most difficult to stand back up. Lightheadedness and nausea spread inside him, and he stared up at the sky momentarily. Small snowflakes descended from the dark heavens, and the sight felt very cold, but appeared quite lovely. Sherlock took a breath and slowly got himself back on his feet. After letting the stars clear his vision, he walked along the path, thinking of where to look for John first. _John is a basic, almost ordinary man. Naturally, one would assume that a villain resides in a home of abandonment, which such homes are found on the left. So left it is._

It took less than half an hour to find John, wandering around helplessly, trying to recognize anyone who could help him find Mrs. Hudson or Moriarty, preferably both. In all the homes he found, it appeared that there was nothing inside of them. He had been searching for a while and found only nothing.

Suddenly, a familiar voice called from behind him. _Moriarty?_ He turned around, and would have yelped if he could find a voice. _Oh God, it's him. It's Moriarty._ He closed his eyes and waited for pain.

"John!" He opened his eyes again. No, it was just Sherlock. He blinked a couple of times. "My eyes must be playing tricks on me..."

"John, why are you out here? You must be freezing!"

"Why do you care?" John answered back, coming to realizing that he was, indeed, very chilled. Anger warmed him, though, so he continued to hold on to it. "Isn't it stupid? You're stupid, Sherlock..."

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and brought him face to face. "John, are you alright? The tone in your voice is most unusual, and you must have been out here for quite some time." Sherlock removed his own scarf and wrapped it around John, who rolled his eyes. "I've only been out here for maybe ten minutes, Sherlock. Calm down."

"What time did you leave the hotel?"

"Midnight, precisely."

"It's past four-thirty, John."

The statement slapped John in the face, and he began to walk with Sherlock back to the hotel. "Oh, God, I must have lost track of time. I didn't find her, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock answered gently. He wrapped an arm around John, not only to provide warmth to the shivering man but because...well, he just wanted to. It made him feel complete. "John, what I said before... I'm sorry. You're not close to stupid. You should know that I don't associate with stupidity. I look up at you because you're brilliant."

"What if we don't find her..." John mumbled as the two entered the hotel. "What if Moriarty did kill her, or what if he plans on doing so? I could never forgive myself if that happened."

"She's fine, John." Keeping his arm around John, Sherlock unlocked the door to their room and stepped inside. He led John to his own bed, where he sat him down gently. On his own bed, Sherlock stared across at him. "Remember at the hospital when we visited her?"

"Yes."

"And we asked her if she had a flash forward?"

"Yes."

"She told us she did, John. That means she'll be alive by April 29th."

John nodded. "Quite right, then." He glanced at the clock and, being unhappy with the time, settled himself in his bed. "Get to sleep, Sherlock. We'll have a big day tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled, observing his beloved companion before turning off the light and settling as well.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

John almost considered purchasing another night in the hotel; he was so very worn out. However, like he told Sherlock, they needed to figure things out, such as where to live for the next couple of months. It would take a while before the flat would be back to normal.

As Sherlock stepped back into their room with two mugs of coffee, John buttoned up a fresh shirt. "Okay, we need to talk about where we'll be residing for a while. I know you wouldn't be comfortable, but I honestly think we could ask -"

"Not Mycroft," Sherlock immediately protested, setting John's coffee on the table and taking a drink from his own. "He would consistently pester me about my work, trying to be like a father figure to me. He couldn't possibly help us."

"We need someone," John answered back. "Mrs. Hudson is...and well, Lestrade wouldn't dare take you in, I'm sure. You'd drive him mad instantly..." He gulped some hot coffee down.

"Lestrade has had an experience living with me before," Sherlock muttered. John perked up. "Oh, don't worry, it wasn't anything like that," he continued. "I can tell you though that he wouldn't want to do it again, so we're stuck with another option."

John felt his pockets, and looked at Sherlock questioningly. "You've got my phone?"

"Oh, right!" Sherlock suddenly remembered the conversation he had with Jim the past day, and he checked for any received messages. One popped up:

_**You might want to read this article, Sherlock. You'll find it most intriguing. xx**_

_**-JM**_

The message had a link attached, but it failed to open. "Does this phone have working Internet?"

"No, sorry," John answered. "The one thing I hate about it. Why? Did you need it?"

"Yes, John! How can you not have mobile Internet..." Sherlock muttered to himself and tossed the phone to John. He took another gulp of coffee and replied, "Why don't you use your own phone?"

"I didn't bring it when we left the flat."

"What?" John moved to Sherlock's bed and grabbed the bag he packed. "What the hell did you bring, then, if not your mobile?"

"No, John!" Sherlock rushed over, stealing the bag from John. "You don't look through my things. Have you got that?"

"Why not?" John shook his head but felt a small hint of betrayal. Weren't they friends? Why couldn't he look in Sherlock's bag?

"It's my personal space, John. It's like if you decided that you wanted to visit my mind palace. You just can't, because I store things in there that only I care about. It's _my_ privacy, available for _my_ eyes only." He zipped his bag and glanced at the clock. "We need to go."

John eyed the bag before picking up his own and slinging it across his shoulder. "Mycroft's house, Sherlock. I know you don't like the idea, but let's make it a temporary place. We'll find somewhere else as soon as possible."

Sherlock groaned loudly, but arguing wouldn't work. There was no option. _Well, this isn't too bad, now is it? I always wanted some family time with my dear big brother._

**Coolsville.**

**I got a new Doctor Who shirt. I win. But anyway. Stay tuned for chapter nine! :]**


	9. Changing the Future

**Hello to the few people who read this. :/ I'm very bored, so I decided to type.**

**Caution; drug usage is introduced in this chapter. Anyone sensitive to that subject may not want to read. I don't want to upset you or anything. :(**

**Enjoy.**

Mycroft's home - well, one of the several that he owned - was near the center of London and quite massive. As the two flatmates approached, John felt what seemed to be excitement inside his stomach. He felt like a child who was given a brand new toy. _Living in a mansion? Now we're talking._ They stepped inside to be greeted by Mycroft Holmes, who sipped on a beverage. "Hello Sherlock, John." He eyed his younger brother suspiciously, able to tell that his balance was off. Sherlock blinked rapidly and looked around the immense room. "We're only here temporarily," he quickly replied.

"Quite right, then," Mycroft smiled his unfriendly smile. "This way, please."

They crossed through the living room and turned down a hallway on the right, bordered with a fine polished wood. Mycroft stopped in the middle of the hallway. Two bedrooms rested across from each other. "Pick whichever you would like," he offered, "and then we'll continue the rest of the tour."

"I don't need a tour," Sherlock insisted, tossing his back into the room on the left. "I know your tastes, so I already know where everything is."

"Um," John popped into the conversation, "I don't, so..."

"Really, John? Isn't it simple?" Sherlock led the men back into the living room, where he observed his surroundings with keen eyes. "Down to the next hallway on the left leads to the kitchen, quite obviously. Not only can you smell the cooking from that general direction but crumbs lay on the floor, possibly from a dropped meal. Being that the kitchen is located there then quite clearly, the dining room is down that hallway as well. Across from there, of course, is the media room, more than likely occupied by a flat screen television and some cozy chairs. Mycroft rarely has time for entertainment and therefore rarely visits this room, which is obvious by the unusual cleanliness of the carpet that lay before the hallway. All other areas look different. Then on the right are stairs that lead up to the second floor which, quite clearly, has a pool -"

"Okay, Sherlock," John muttered. "You can quit showing off now."

"Oh come on," Sherlock grinned. "I love irritating my big brother. It is most amusing." He glared at Mycroft, stared right into him. He sighed in reply. "If you need anything, the two of you, I'll be in my office, which -"

"Is on the far right hallway, take the second left," Sherlock interrupted with a smirk. Mycroft muttered a "correct" and went exactly where Sherlock deduced that he would.

Later that evening, John sat alone in his room, thinking about everything that was to supposedly happen in just a few months.

_Why Smith Tank? Why would I be there, and why would Moriarty and Sherlock be there? We've never been to that place, not that I'm aware of. So why were we there?_ He shook his head and decided to check on Sherlock.

He moved to Sherlock's door and knocked gently. "Sherlock? Are you in here?" He knocked again, but there was no response. "Sherlock?" He opened the door and peered in. Sherlock's room was a bit similar to his own, except the furniture was arranged differently and the walls were painted with a light blue rather than gold. At the left side of the room, Sherlock sat at a small, wooden desk, where his Macbook was set. _At least he brought that._ His eyes were shut tight, and he didn't seem to notice John's arrival.

"Sherlock?"

His bloodshot eyes shot open, and his pulse and breathing seemed louder than normal. He turned to see John staring at him curiously. "John," he gasped.

"Are you alright?" John noticed that Sherlock held his arm tightly in the tender spot above his elbow. "What did you do?"

"Th-the link," Sherlock muttered, his voice shaking terribly. "I did some research. The future can be..." He closed his eyes, fighting a gag rising inside him. He opened his eyes again. "The future can be changed."

"How do you mean?" John approached Sherlock, who eyed him as if he were a strange insect of no identity. "I mean," Sherlock answered, his voice rising, "it doesn't matter if you have a flash forward because _the future can change._ You can change it y-yourself, and Moriarty plans to do that to Mrs. Hudson..." His fight against gagging failed, and he choked. John bent down next to him. "Sherlock? What's happening?"

Sherlock stood from the chair and looked around him. The colors on the walls and carpet and on John faded into grey and white. "God," he muttered. "I shouldn't have done that..."

John blinked. "What? What did you do?"

Sherlock felt his legs begin to shake and he pointed to the bed. John led him there and noticed a small bottle and needle already lying there. With steady fingers he picked them up. "No. You didn't."

"I shouldn't have, rather." Sherlock sat on the bed and lied on his back, staring at the dull colored ceiling. "Maybe I forgot that I haven't even recovered from the incident we dealt with not long ago, but in a panic, I..." He swallowed rough. "John, I know you believe that love and care are both foreign to my being but I can assure you that your thoughts are incorrect. Of course I care that Mrs. Hudson is in danger, quite possibly dead. This is what I expect as of now, seeing how Moriarty's next step involves picking away at us until we're nothing. He started with her, my greatest friend next to you." He rubbed his red eyes and let out an irritated breath.

"Sherlock..." John, without thinking, lied next to him, staring at him intently. "She may not be dead. Like she said, she had a flash forward."

"Indeed she did," Sherlock responded softly, "but so did a man in America."

"Sorry?"

"There was a man," he began, "who lived in Los Angeles, I believe. He had a flash forward. In this dream, he received a phone call, where some official informed him that a woman and two kids he truly cared about in the flash forward were killed, and in the dream, he continually blamed himself for the incident. He must have been connected to it." Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting the air cool his burning lungs before he continued. "In reality, he didn't know the woman or children just yet, but they meant everything to him in the flash forward. He wanted to prevent having them killed, however it was done. Yesterday, this man wrote a letter for that woman to find, and after so, he jumped off a building and died. He killed himself, John. He's dead, forever..." He looked at John. "He changed the future. That woman will still be alive in six months, but that man, that brave man who, himself, had a flash forward, will not be. As far as we can tell, this future for us is written, but more importantly is that it _can_ be _rewritten._"

A thought crept into his brain, and he grabbed John's hand suddenly. "Despite the grave possibility of losing Mrs. Hudson, I am pleased about this. Maybe I can save you."

"I won't die," John answered, smiling. "You would never let me, anyway."

Sherlock laughed. "True." His head throbbed gently. "I am sorry for my cocaine usage. It's only what I use when I have neither a case nor cigarette, or when my heart is broken."

"I thought you said you didn't have a heart."

"Quite right," he aired. "I know that's not true, though. If I didn't have one, why would Moriarty want to burn one out of me so badly?"

They continued to lay together, barely speaking. It was most peaceful, a thing John rarely got to experience. Even better, he was with Sherlock. Nothing could be better.

At dinner, Sherlock was still mildly high but managed to control it. However, he didn't bother controlling his raging appetite, noticing that he hadn't eaten since he had an apple the other day.

"So," Mycroft began, sipping on his wine. "Would you like to tell me-"

"Oh, _God._" Sherlock groaned, returning his fork to his plate. "Must you pester me about my own life?"

"Well, little brother, you never tell me what happens to you on your own, so how else can I know?"

"Maybe I don't tell you _because_ you pester me."

"I only pester you because you_ don't_ tell me!"

"Okay, okay," John interrupted, shaking his head. "No need to argue over something like this. Mycroft, what do you want to know?"

"Well, I was curious about Sherlock's flash forward, and perhaps your own," he responded officially. "Perhaps I may know something and can help you out."

John, sitting next to Sherlock, leaned towards him. "He makes a good point," he whispered. "I mean, he can't help with mine, but who knows?"

Sherlock nodded in defeat. "I was in some strange building I've never been to, and I found a body, and I went to another room with Moriarty and that's all you need to know." He smiled satisfactorily and bit into another biscuit.

"And John?" Mycroft questioned. John just smiled. "The building Sherlock was in was Smith Tank, and old abandoned -"

"What?" Sherlock asked. "How do you know that? Even I didn't know that and you weren't even there."

"Lestrade told me. He was there, remember?"

"Then why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't think it was very relevant. It would be different if people still worked in the building, but apparently it was closed down."

"No matter, John!" Sherlock stood up and grabbed the half-eaten biscuit. "Thank you for dinner, brother dear. Tomorrow, I will investigate this building and see what I can find. John, although you were not there, I would like you to join me." Biting off his biscuit, he headed to his room, John following on his heels. Sherlock swallowed the biscuit and declared, "I'd be lost without my blogger."

**Voila, some stuff is happening. Aren't they so very sweet. XD Review, my darlings, and expect an update fairly soon! :)**


	10. The Blue Hand Club

**Up to the double digits now! And here I am, with chapter ten. Do enjoy. ^^**

Smith Tank - a shabby, unmonitored building on the north side of London. The building once operated very well until a different tank company took charge, making even more tanks at a cheaper price with half the time. Despite Smith Tank having higher quality tanks, they were forced to shut down. Competition deemed to be pointless.

Sherlock approached the building one evening, joined by John. They stared up at the largeness of the old building and the shattered windows from when children used to play games quite carelessly.

"The 'For Sale' sign has been here for quite some time," Sherlock observed. "It won't matter in the slightest if anyone comes here."

"Why would they, anyway? To throw a party?" John questioned.

"Or, perhaps, to plan something dangerous." John knew that Sherlock referred to Jim Moriarty. As they passed the sign, John turned around to check if anyone had followed them when he noticed the back of the "For Sale" sign, where a blue hand was painted on. It clearly pointed towards the abandoned building. _Maybe someone has been here before._

Sherlock found that the best entrance was through one of the closed garages. With a grunt, he lifted his fingers underneath it and pulled it up, revealing a _very _large room.

_The room... This is where I was when the flash forward happened._ With a noticeable amount of concern, he side glanced at John. _This is where his death was to happen._ John remained oblivious to Sherlock's concern and whistled at the size of the room. "I'm guessing this is where the tanks were made," he commented. Only one small tank, unfinished, sat to their right. Again, a blue hand was painted on it, pointing to a nearby door. This time, Sherlock noticed it. "This was recently painted on," he deduced, kneeling by the tank and touching the paint. "Two months ago, at maximum. It must be a code, something that members from a certain group would understand." Sherlock approached the door and put his ear to it. Silence. He placed a pale white hand on the rusty doorknob and pushed the door open. Another small room remained inside, containing an old desk (clearly belonging to the company but abandoned, Sherlock observed), where a shallow girl sat, staring dully at the two men. She looked like she had been beaten.

_Twenty-five years old, going on twenty-six in the next month,_ Sherlock deduced within two seconds. _Clearly no parents, lost long before the blackout. Cheap makeup but quite an expensive hair style, so she does have a bit of money. Part of something that I would like to be made aware of._ Sherlock gave John the "just go with my lead" look and approached the desk.

The girl raised an eyebrow at the men. "Welcome to the Blue Hand Club," she greeted. She continued to stare with such cold, empty eyes. Sherlock disguised his detective self and looked at her with a mildly dull expression as well. "I'm sorry, but could you tell me what you do here? A friend recommended this place to me."

The girl seemed suspicious at the man's question, but felt too lazy to explain or demand they leave. She pointed behind her, where another door loomed. "You just go in there," she answered. "You do whatever you want with whoever you want."

"In a sexual case?"

"If you want that, then yes." The girl scratched at her nails, looking away from Sherlock. "Mainly it's about pain and suicide."

"Right," Sherlock answered, sounding completely calm. "Why, though?"

"If you're a part of this group, then you'll understand why completely. You didn't have a flash forward, meaning you'll be dead fairly soon. It doesn't matter what anyone says because it's the truth. I had a friend who told me she didn't have a flash forward, and she went in that room." The girl looked back up, her expression having not changed. "Two weeks later and she still hasn't come out. I'm guessing it's because she _died,_ because that's what _will_ happen to anyone who didn't see anything in their future."

John bit his lip. _So I will be dead, then. Lovely._

"Some people," the girl continued, "come here to torture others, to kill until they themselves get killed. Others come just for the torture. They want to feel everything, anything, even if it's pain, because one day soon, they'll feel nothing at all." She sighed and sat back in the chair, silently announcing the end of her speech.

"Could you tell me if you know that Jim Moriarty attends this club?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry. I don't know. It's not like we have a list or anything, but you can try looking." She stood up from the desk and they followed her to the door, which she opened. As they stepped in, she declared, "If you plan on making it out of here in a fine condition, keep an eye out. Some people in there might grab you and do whatever they want to you." She closed the door with a sense of finality.

In the room, first, was a bar, run by a man just as sad-looking as the girl from the desk. After that, the scene horrified John all the way through. In some areas, people were _in line_ to shoot themselves, just after sticking their shooting hand in a bucket of blue paint. In other places, whips cracked and victims screamed. All around them was death and pain, and John felt a sudden flashback of his days in the war. He swooned, and Sherlock held him up. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I don't like this," John managed to stutter. The blood slowly drained from his face and he tugged on Sherlock's arm. "Please...let's just...let's go."

In two minutes, they were back outside, but John didn't feel any better. Tears rose in his eyes, and he couldn't blink them away. Sherlock faced him, dreadfully concerned. "John, are -"

"So _that's_ me, is it?" John exclaimed, pointing to the building. "That's what I'm supposed to be doing? I'm going to die in only a matter of months and I should be doing _that?_" A tear escaped him, and he put his hands over his face. If he were calm, he would feel ashamed to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. "Why...how could anybody do this? People fight for their survival, for their mere existence, every damn day, and because of the lack of a future, they go and _destroy_ their lives? What happened to living the best of what you have until the end?" He moaned sadly, wiping the tears away. He glared at the blue hand painted on the sign. "I didn't go to war for this," he mumbled, barely over a whisper. "I didn't fight for people to kill themselves... I fought for _life_ and _hope._ At least I know it's all gone now, and next time I make a decision to fight for someone, I can deny it and not get hurt in the end."

Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. "John, there are several people out there who didn't have a flash forward. Not all of them are a part of this group. You aren't," he encouraged. "You can always fight for someone you love. The caring ones will be considerate of this fact, and will keep fighting for life even without hope." He smiled weakly. He'd never seen John this way, and feared that he wasn't even helping. He patted his friend's shoulder. "Everything is going to be alright."

A car suddenly pulled up, clearly one of Mycroft's. John betted that he'd been kidnapped in that car before. Mycroft stepped out of the car, and approached the two. "Find anything useful?" he asked his brother.

"Not hardly," Sherlock muttered. "What do you want?"

"This isn't about you," Mycroft answered, and turned to John. The tiny smile on his face melted into a frown. "I'm sorry, John, but something's happened."

John sat upright, blinking the tears away quickly. "What? What happened?"

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, facing the man at a more accurate level. "It's about your sister, Harriet."

John's eyes widened. "Tell me."

"I'm sorry, John." He sighed heavily. "She's gone missing."

**Uh oh. :o I've been getting more ideas lately for the story. Thinking _does_ help. :p Review and I'll see you soon. :D**


	11. Missing Puzzle Pieces

**John Watson is a hedgehog. So what is Sherlock Holmes? o_O**

**Chapter eleven! :D**

For the rest of the day and most of the next, John stayed in his room with the door locked. Surprisingly, he didn't even come out to eat until lunch the next day, but he ate very little. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes and he didn't look at Sherlock, who, after discovering the Blue Hand Club, spoke with his brother about everything that had happened.

"It's a suicide club," Sherlock explained, watching John retreat to his bedroom and shut the door firmly. He looked back to Mycroft. "I don't think they're a potential harm to outsiders so you don't need to keep an eye on them."

Mycroft swirled his drink in the glass. "I find it rather interesting that in a few months, you will be in that room with James Moriarty."

"I was in a different room," Sherlock clarified. "The dream was clear as day and I remember it in such a fashion. I first found myself in that garage where we began the search, and then we continued through the door on our right. In the flash forward, however, I went down the hallway right in front of us and took a left from there. That's where Moriarty was." He crossed his legs and tapped at his mouth, thinking. "I should have checked that room before leaving, but I wasn't thinking right."

"You were worried," Mycroft declared, a smile in his voice.

"No I wasn't."

"You were worried about John."

_"No."_ Sherlock glared at him, and they stared at each other for a few minutes, reading each other intently, as they began to do as teenagers. Things were different now, though, being adults and leaving that difficult life behind them forever. Finally, thinking of John, Sherlock changed the subject. "So what happened to Harry Watson?"

Mycroft blinked, as though waking from a reverie. "Ah, right. She spoke on the phone with another of her female friends, who would be going over to her place. Upon arrival, this friend found the door had been broken into. Harry was gone, and the room showed an obvious struggle."

"What time did this happen?"

"About ten o'clock."

"And nothing was left behind?"

"Nothing other than the struggle."

"Alright." Sherlock reviewed his new brain notes, and Mycroft eyed him. "I have a feeling that you know who did this."

"Indeed I do," Sherlock spoke gently. "James Moriarty."

"Oh, really now? And how do you know this?"

"He's trying to destroy me, Mycroft. He blew up my home so that I had to rely on others. Now, slowly, he's picking away at anybody for me to run to, until I have no one." He stood up from his seat and looked down at his older brother. "I advise you to be careful, because he'll more than likely be after you fairly soon."

"He can't get to me," Mycroft assured. "My surveillance is far too advanced for him to reach me without my own attention."

"If you insist." He smiled, the smile that didn't say "I hope you'll be alright" or show any forms of concern. "Goodnight, Mycroft." He headed to his room and prepared to spend the night thinking, trying to think of a way to stop Moriarty.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

At noon the next day, John finally exited his room to greet Sherlock in the kitchen, who fondled with a piece of bread, not yet bitten into. Noticing John but not looking at him, he commented, "Sleep well?" John leaned in the doorway. "Not particularly, but I'm going to be fine." He went to the fridge and was delighted to find milk that wasn't more or less contaminated by one of Sherlock's experiments. He poured himself a glass. "What are you thinking about?"

"I know Moriarty will get at everyone I know for the most part," Sherlock replied. "I can't stop it, though. I'll be a minute too late."

"So?" John downed most of the milk in one gulp.

"So, I'm wondering if I can get anyone out before he can hurt them too much." He gave up on the bread and tossed it onto the counter. "I feel guilty, with you sister and all." He realized the words came out of his mouth, and he regretted them. _Guilt? I'm not to show something like that, especially not to John._

John raised his eyebrows curiously. "What do you mean, guilty? You didn't cause this."

Sherlock would have ignored the comment, but he already started something. He may as well finish it. "It is my fault. I shouldn't have taken you in to be my flatmate. If I didn't, you probably would have had a flash forward. Your family would be fine and you would be fine and it's my fault." He stared awkwardly at the floor, silencing himself before any more _emotions_ could get out. John approached him nervously. "I'd also be a lot more dull than I am today, Sherlock. I would never go for that kind of boring life, not now."

"But you _would_ have if you never met me."

John put a hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed it gently. "I was a soldier, remember? I highly doubt that's true. Now don't say you regret us solving cases or I'll hit you for it." He smiled, and they stared at each other briefly, speaking only with the silence around them.

Until, of course, John realized the awkwardness of the situation and went back to his milk placed on the other side of the kitchen. He cleared his throat as Sherlock eyed him carefully. "So...you could warn people about Moriarty, so that they could at least be prepared for what's coming."

"Correct," Sherlock declared. "I'm glad I have you around. I think I'll start with those that couldn't help me as much as others. Moriarty is the type to go from the bottom of the list up to the top." He pulled his phone - rather, John's phone - out of his pocket and scrolled through the contacts to find Molly Hooper.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

After a busy day, Molly returned her things to her bag and got ready to go relax at home, probably with the telly on loud and a few crossword puzzles. She first headed down to the morgue, almost forgetting to turn off the lights. _Bad habit of mine,_ she almost mumbled as she stepped into the eerie room. Instead of being greeted by an empty and cleaned out room, she shrieked at what she saw.

"Oh, God, Jim..." she muttered, jumping slightly, being frightened by the man's sudden appearance. Unlike the last few times she had seen him, Jim Moriarty wore a very nice suit, probably very expensive, which, she admitted to herself, looked rather good on his figure. He smiled at her. "Hello, dearie." She didn't return the smirk.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "How did you even get in? The doors were locked."

"I have a thing with doors," he answered, grinning. He sure did love to grin when he had plans going into effect. "Unlocking them required a scrap of common sense and patience."

"Jim, we broke up... What do you want?"

"I have a puzzle," Jim stated bluntly, stepping towards her slowly. "I guess, in a sense that we were still dating, you're the missing piece to my puzzle - well, one of them, I suppose. I have a few more."

Molly began to step back, watching him very suspiciously. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have a friend who doesn't think I should be speaking with you anymore."

"Who is it? Sherlock Holmes?"

She let her eyes drift to the side, not wanting to look at him right now. Most of all, she hated admitting the truth to the snake-like man. "Yes. He says you're a criminal who's nearly as brilliant as himself."

"Awww, that's so _sweet!_" Jim declared in his usual sing-song voice, throwing his hands in the air as he continued to step forward. "Do you think he likes me? Does he ever talk about my looks?" He pretended to blush, and Molly flared up. "Just leave me alone! You're dangerous, Jim, for reasons which I don't quite understand."

His smile faded, and he discontinued stepping forward. "I understand your disappointment, Molly dear. But you must _learn_ to understand why I'm after Sherlock. You're part of my plan to burn him now, whether you're aware of it or not."

Molly turned for the door as quickly as she could, but when trying to open it, she found that she couldn't. _But I didn't lock the door,_ she thought in a panic. In her bag around her shoulder, she felt her phone ringing. The ringtone sounded like an alarm, and she only assigned that ringtone to one of her contacts. She knew who it was. Before she could answer, she heard a "fwip" and felt a small sting in the side of her neck.

"Darts are fun," Jim said, looking at her curiously. "I didn't get into them until recently. They're much more cruel than explosives, don't you think? You allow your victim to have a second in which they remember every sad moment that's happened to them, letting them leave Earth with a sad countenance..."

His voice trailed off, and she slipped to the floor. Her sight, her hearing, her physical contact with anything, _everything_ was fuzzy. The last thing she heard before going out was the sound of her phone. _He's calling for you, Molly. He's actually calling for you, but you can't even answer. He might need you, and you aren't there for him. It's an awful shame._

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she groaned so very quietly as a black curtain was hung over her consciousness.

**I'll try to get chapter twelve done soon but I'm swamped with newspaper work. Deadline in three days (plus a 3-4 hour worknight) and I've barely started on anything because I literally couldn't. Feature story, center spread and back page. Yay. See you soon, I hope! Review. (;**


	12. A New Method

**Sorry for the delayed update. Dramatically problematic list of reasons to be listed below. .**

Molly Hooper. Oh, Sherlock could go on and on about her, making observations and deductions. He could read her as simply as one could read a book. The simplicity of her being was nearly astonishing; she was the mere definition of human. And through this, Sherlock knew something was wrong because she didn't answer him. Molly, that sad, amazingly simple girl, clearly liked Sherlock more than a normal friend should. Sherlock deduced that someone with those kinds of feelings may have a certain special ringtone set _just_ for that person, like any mad teenager would. And like the teenager, she would answer when that significant other called, sounding off the too-familiar ringtone that only she would see the meaning behind. And through all of that, Sherlock deduced that Moriarty had gotten to her first.

After an hour and no response from her, Sherlock knocked on John's door. "I'm going out," he called through the polished wood, and expected John to follow on his heels. Naturally, he did.

On the cab ride there, John observed his friend, who said nothing the entire time. Sherlock would claim that he was thinking, or that there was no point talking if there was nothing that needed to be talked about. This time, however, John knew that a small, back-of-his-mind part of him, had slipped into a state of mourning and guilt.

Finally, John cut through the silence. "She could be busy working, you know. She normally works until ten at night, or even later if you need her to."

"It's a Sunday," Sherlock answered, his sharp eyes not leaving the cab window. "She never needs to work down at the morgue by two. It's nearly three now."

John, feeling a sense of worry, sent a quick warning text to Mike.

They dashed inside the hospital and moved quite rapidly through the miniature crowd, ignoring the looks shown by nurses and patients. They went into the elevator. "They might have heard her if she screamed," John suggested, hope in his quiet voice.

"The morgue is four floors up," Sherlock said. "They more than likely wouldn't. Aside from that, maybe she didn't get a chance to scream." The giant silver doors opened slowly, and they dashed down the hall rather quickly.

Sherlock stopped suddenly at the door to the morgue. A note was attached, and he read it aloud: "Left you a present. You can say thank you later." He snarled in return, and yanked the door open.

On the table, ripped from one of the deceased citizens, rested a human heart, burnt to a black crisp.

Surprisingly, Sherlock did notice that it was a threat but he didn't seem to recognize the fear that was implanted in the little message. He almost laughed aloud at the sight, finding it rather dramatic. Sadly, as expected, there was no sign of Molly, so he felt angry as well. John observed their surroundings, in hope of a clue. On the floor close to the door lied a sinful little dart, which John picked up with gentle care. "Look, Sherlock."

_"You weren't breathing or anything, and there was a dart in your neck."_

"Peculiar," Sherlock commented, switching his focus from the burned heart to the small weapon. "He must be bored of explosives to use something as simple and quick and _quiet_ as this." He licked the tip of the tiny needle carefully. "A quick solution of anesthetics. Molly is fine, just in a deep sleep, for now." He felt the material of the dart. It was wound around with very thin blue thread. He unwrapped the thread but found nothing very useful. "There's a reason, though. He's not using any bombs, which is very unlike him. He wouldn't just change his murdering methods out of sheer boredom. There's an underlying reason..." He lifted his gaze, his mouth open in a short gasp. John knew he'd figured it out. "So what's the reason, then?"

"Think about it," Sherlock said, almost smiling to himself. "Use your brain to think like _me._ Think about the explosives that he would normally use compared to the darts. What make the two different?"

John took the dart and examined it. "Well, darts use poison or, in this case, anesthetics, while bombs just explode and burn things."

"Good, good. And?"

"The size difference is, well...different."

"Indeed. Anything else?"

John held the dart's needle between his thumb and index finger. "Darts are silent, while -"

_"Yes!"_ Sherlock exclaimed, and John jumped in alarm. "Way to go, John! You've figured it out."

John looked at him sternly. "You're doing the look again."

Sherlock's facial excitement dropped. "No I'm not. You figured it out! We both know what's going on."

"No, I listed a fact."

"Yes, exactly!" Sherlock turned back to the table, where the unbeating heart remained. "Moriarty is determined to _destroy_ me, yes? If he weren't, he wouldn't leave a little 'present' such as this one. When he went after me the first time, he used explosives. He even made you into a walking bomb, John, because that's his theme. He loves those little bombs with a passion. So, why would he use this?" He grabbed the dart from John and held it to his eye level. "You listed the fact, as you said. Darts are silent, but explosives produce an immense amount of sound. Why does an escaped criminal hide in the shadows when he can run to safety in the streets?"

"Because..." John attempted to piece his words together, but Sherlock naturally interrupted him. "Because right now, Moriarty is known to you and I, and he is known to the police force, and he's even known by my big brother. Along with that, his plan probably includes an open area, out in public -"

"Like the Smith Tank building," John answered.

"Of course," Sherlock responded. "If he wants his plan to work then he needs to keep quiet, and he must remain in the shadows before making his appearance in the street."

"Well, if we already know his public place - which, by the way, isn't very open to people - then why can't we just stop him now?"

Sherlock slipped the dart into his coat pocket and headed for the door. "He's like a high schooler who plans on finishing the project at the last minute. He needs to gather up all his pieces - in this case, anyone who I could branch out to - and then put forth the actions. I'm not sure how but I'm working on it."

As the cab took them back to Mycroft's house, John checked his phone only to see that Mike still hadn't answered. _Perhaps working late, then?_ Sherlock still didn't speak.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"I find it rather odd that you haven't even looked into what caused the blackout."

"Just some accident, I suppose."

"You don't believe in accidents."

Sherlock looked out the window again, his eyes stone cold. "Is there a reason why you're bringing this up?"

"What happened in your flash forward?"

Sherlock turned and looked at John, considering telling him. He probably had figured it out anyway. "You were dead, John. I found you dead."

John nodded. "I figured it would happen anyway. What else?"

Sherlock told John what happened to him, and in his eyes, that's all he needed to know. He couldn't possibly admit that he would fail to Jim Moriarty. "That's it."

"Sher-"

"That's _it,_ John."

John stared at the seat in front of him as Sherlock looked away again. "I just want to say that working with you has been a -"

"Oh, don't start," Sherlock muttered quietly. "You'll live. I'll make sure of it." He looked back at his great friend. There was hardly any time, only a few more months. He would make sure that John survived so they could continue solving crimes together and having the best of times. No monster, not even one like Jim, could alter that decision. "If you ever die young, John, it'll be because you're dying with me. If it must happen then we will be together until the end."

It was going to be a long few months.

**Okay, could have done more, but here are my reasons. 1. Deadline in newspaper. Had to focus on that a lot. 2. The power went out for no reason yet again. Just a bit annoying. 3. I'm sick. :( But anyway, I hope you liked this chapter, and I'll update as soon as I can. Review.**


	13. A Difficult Case

_Two months later_

After the blackout, Sherlock and John didn't need to worry about any sorts of cases; even criminals gave up on a few plans after the incident and the either lucky or unfortunate chance of glimpsing at their future. There were a few out there, however, that kept on with what they did.

On March 10th, Lestrade called John and asked if they could assist in a murder. Sherlock was more than happy to finally have something fun to do; John had kept a watchful eye on him to make sure he didn't have another incident with the drugs, so his boredom resulted in breaking "one of the oldest and most expensive vases in all of the United Kingdom that has quite an incredible history and you _need_ to be more careful in my house!" when in all reality, "it's just a vase, Mycroft, and I didn't _mean_ to break it; I was attempting to measure the trajectory of a skull bouncing from a certain height from a certain material that you wouldn't care about." To sum it up, _everyone_ was glad when they got the call and left for a few hours.

"Look who it is," Lestrade greeted the two men as they approached the crime scene. "Been a few months, hasn't it?"

"Quite so," Sherlock nodded in agreement. "So where is this woman?" He followed as Lestrade stepped back and headed into a small house. Sherlock deduced through the minor details that it'd been owned several times by many different families, and yet the current owners or owners lived there for only two years at the most. John decided to try what Sherlock had said and attempted to think like him, but he didn't seem to find a lot of information, surely not as much as Sherlock did.

They entered the home and went to their immediate left, where, at the far side of the room right next to the wall, a woman lied dead. Sherlock stared at her, taking in all the facts as though they were handed to him on a sheet of paper. _Accountant, single, never married. No extended family. Enjoys fiction novels and soap operas. Works late in the night. Not a lot of friends._ He approached the body and took a closer look while Lestrade explained her situation.

"According to her identification and credit cards, her name is Leandra Simmons, age twenty-seven. She lives in this house with her unemployed younger brother Ivan, age twenty-five. He says she asked if he could go to the store and get something for dinner tonight. As he got out of his car upon returning, he heard her scream loudly. He rushed in and found her here, exactly where she is. He's back at the interviewing room right now with Anderson and Donovan."

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered more to himself than to Lestrade, and pulled his magnifying tool from his coat pocket. He paid close attention to everything - her mouth, nose, neck, wrists, legs. There were no bruises or anything. Nearly out of disbelief, he checked her pulse to make sure she really was deceased. "Most interesting indeed."

Lestrade furrowed his brow and looked at him. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "John, take a look and tell me what you think. You should be able to see it as well." John nodded and took a look at the woman. _No smell of alcohol. No bruises or cuts anywhere, nor any sort of signs of a struggle. No signs of a poison injected in her._ "Yes, it's very interesting," he agreed after a couple minutes.

"Can someone tell me what's so interesting?" Lestrade groaned.

"Look at her, inspector." Sherlock returned his tool to its loyal place in his coat and turned to Lestrade. "This isn't just a normal murder. The way that she collapsed and the way that she landed, how there aren't any minor injuries, no torn clothes or skin to show an injection - it's as though her heart just stopped at a sudden glance and she fell. The interesting part, however, is how the brother claims that he heard her scream."

"I think we need to see her brother," John recommended to Lestrade, who nodded, not taking his eyes off the dead woman. "We could get some more information from him then you can expect Anderson to." Lestrade pursed his lips tightly, thinking. "Alright. I'll be right behind you. And please, Sherlock, the man is devastated, so take it easy on him."

Sherlock adjusted his coat collar and glanced back at Lestrade before heading out to the street. "For all you know, he _is_ the murderer. I'll just be myself if I find it of importance." He smirked and stepped away, with John following right behind him.

Ivan Simmons was a pale, skinny young man, with deep green eyes and shockingly black hair, even darker than Sherlock's. His hands trembled gently. He sat at the table, not taking his eyes off his hands, and his fingers intertwined with each other. Sherlock entered the all-too familiar room and sat at the table in front of him, yet he didn't recognize his existence. John stood in the corner and checked his phone patiently.

"Ivan Simmons?"

Ivan glanced up at the detective shortly before looking back down, but then he darted his eyes back up in recognition. "Oh, wow, it's..." A smile nearly came upon him, but he swallowed it back and blinked. "I've heard of you in the papers. I keep up with John's blog as well. You're..."

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, smiling almost kindly. "I'm in the least bit surprised that you've heard of me. John's blog deals with dramatic situations in our cases rather than the analysis, so naturally, people won't understand the true meaning of deduction and reasoning." He shot a glance at John before turning back to the subject. "I know you've talked to several policemen, but I'd like you to tell me everything from the start with exquisite detail."

Ivan swallowed and his mildly perked mood sank back down. "Well... My sis, Leandra... We don't get on very well - or rather, we didn't used to. So when she asked me to go to the store then I did quickly just so I wouldn't have to be around her. I stayed at the store for about fifteen minutes, only because I didn't want to get back home. Eventually I did leave the store and as I got out of the car -"

"You heard her scream from inside the house," Sherlock finished for him. Ivan swallowed and nodded. "Yeah."

"Did she scream anything in particular or was it a regular shriek?"

"No, she didn't scream 'help' or anything. It was just...you know."

Sherlock nodded, his brain operating quickly. He stared at Ivan's eyes intently. "You went to the door, unlocked it, and went _straight_ to the room, yes?"

"Correct."

"She was found lying down, as though she were merely resting. There were no signs of a struggle, correct?"

"Yes."

"One last question." Sherlock stood up from the chair and looked very intently at the man. "Did you find a dart on her person anywhere at all?"

Ivan's eyes widened slightly, but reverted to normal almost immediately. "No sir. I just found her body as you described it and called the police immediately."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you for your time. Come along, John. We need to speak to Lestrade." They headed out of the room, and Ivan rested his head on the table upon hearing the door close behind him.

Sherlock had obviously found something, otherwise he would just go home. Instead of smiling, though, his mood seemed cold and dull. Whatever he found, John predicted, had something to do with Jim Moriarty. "What did you find?"

"Ivan is connected to Moriarty," Sherlock responded as they walked down the halls. "As he described the situation with his sister, several times did I notice his eyes tilt to the right."

"Yeah, and?"

"The right side of the brain is for creativity and storytelling," Sherlock responded as they got outside. His sharp eyes searched for Lestrade's familiar face. "When a person lies, their eyes tilt that way subconsciously. Hardly anyone knows that they do it, and it takes a lot to overcome it. His entire story was a lie. Did you also notice that his eyes widened when I mentioned the dart?" They approached Anderson and Sally who spoke quietly together. "What will be done with Ivan Simmons for now?"

"Why does it matter?" Sally greeted slyly.

"He'll be put in our loving custody, I presume," Sherlock answered himself. "I would like to arrange that. Where is Lestrade?"

"I don't know," Anderson responded, looking around. He was nowhere in sight. "He could still be at the crime scene."

"No, he said he would follow us here," Sherlock answered. "John, give me your phone." He dialed Lestrade's number and waited. "It's ringing out."

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

_Run. It's him. This answers everything. But you need to run. Just run._

Lestrade groaned and his eyes slowly opened. The room swirled around him, colors blending in and nothing taking form. When they finally did, he was terrified.

He had no idea where he was. He had never been there in his life. He felt a trickling sensation down his face, but when he tried to wipe it off, he realize that his hands were tied behind him.

_Run. It's him._

"..What?" He groaned again and tried to stand up, but found that he couldn't.

"Greg?"

A woman's voice, and a familiar one, at that. He was not alone. He blinked and his rough vision cleared. To his left, he saw...Molly? It was Molly Hooper. She was tied to a pole sticking out of the floor, her wrists restrained behind her and her ankles, as well. He gasped. "Molly?"

"Are you okay?" She sounded panicked. "What do you remember happening?"

He swallowed tightly and closed his eyes. "I can't remember..."

"Those darts," she muttered. "They help you forget."

_Darts._

"Right," he answered. "Hold on... Where the hell are we?"

Molly had been crying; tears had stained her delicate face. From her overall condition she must have been there for quite a while. "It's Jim," she answered gently. "Jim Moriarty."

_Lestrade left the crime scene and called for a cab. "Scotland Yard," he instructed as he stepped in and sat down. He jumped when he realized there was another man already in the cab. Before he could even speak, he heard the doors lock and the cab shot down the street, not in the direction of his required destination. "What - what's going on here?" He reached for his gun when a blow to the head knocked him back, and his attacker took the gun. Blood dripped from his wound, and he instantly felt woozy. Suddenly, he felt a small sting in his neck. He reached for it and pulled out a small dart. "W...what..." Then the world melted into darkness._

"The cab driver..." Lestrade gasped in remembrance. "It was him!"

"Jim Moriarty," a voice echoed in the large room. "And you are correct!" From the shadows stepped the man himself, smiling childishly. He looked down at Lestrade, a triumphant glow across his entire being. "And this, inspector, should be very fun indeed."

**Oh noes! :( I like Lestrade. But that's okay. I have district UIL tomorrow but sometime after that I'll try to get it done. I'll be spending a lot of my time relaxing 'cause I twisted a nerve in mah back. Ouches. Review and I'll have yo babiez.**


	14. Sit Back and Reminisce

**Quick note. For the next chapter or so, the first half will be like a reminiscence between Lestrade and Sherlock - not for any gross romantic reasons or anything like that. It's just how I want it to be because I find Lestrade a very important character in the story. So! Enjoy :]**

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP._

"Ugh..." Lestrade moaned, awakening from a comfortable sleep, and shut off the alarm. Sure, it had been nearly a year working with Scotland Yard, but the lack of sleep he obtained was hardly something he could get used to. Long hours up at night out doing a job he loved combined with early rising didn't mix too well. He sat up in bed and headed for the bathroom.

It didn't ever take long for him to get ready; he just needed to grab some decent clothes and put on his badge. He had been told that after maybe a year or so, once all the officers were familiar with his position, he wouldn't even need to wear it anymore. He almost wanted to, though. It felt nice. _Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade._ It looked good.

Seven years before being held captive by Moriarty and only hoping to keep his very life, Lestrade got up at the usual early hour and put on his badge. It was almost a normal day.

The evening came upon London rather quick so it seemed, and Lestrade was getting ready to head back for home when Anderson, one of his very useful officers, walked in angrily with his face directed towards the ceiling. Another officer, Donovan, stood with him, looking concerned. Lestrade soon notice that Anderson tried to cease the bleeding in his nose.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade questioned as he approached the two.

"Some bloke," Donovan answered angrily. "Homeless as far as we can tell. He made several remarks on the case as though he had all the answers, and when Anderson made a snarky remark he got punched."

"Who did it?" Lestrade asked just when a couple other officers headed to the interviewing room, both having a tight grip on a young man. He didn't see his face. Lestrade pointed as the officers closed the door. "Is that him?"

"That's him, all right," Anderson spat, "and I'd like to have a word with that _freak._"

"No, you stay here and get someone to make sure your nose isn't broken." Lestrade headed for the door. "I'll speak to him."

Lestrade excused the two officers already in the room and they left quickly. At the table sat a young man with curly black hair. He was pale as a sheet. He looked up at Lestrade with bloodshot eyes. "What do you want? Why don't they let me go?"

"Well," Lestrade started, taking a seat opposite of the other. He crossed his arms and examined him. "You punched an officer. People generally get locked up for things like that, don't you think?"

The young man sighed and looked up at the bright lights above him. "He wouldn't listen to me. He called me a stupid freak when I'm right."

"How do you even know about the case?" Lestrade demanded, fearing a loose tongue in the working force. "Did another officer tell you about it?"

"Oh, no, I just pay attention." He smiled at Lestrade, an airy and unfocused smile. "Since I was a kid I've paid a lot of attention to those things. They interest me, in fact they fascinate me. I just wish people could see that I'm right. They'd wrap up the case quite quickly."

"You're an amateur," Lestrade responded. "Of course they won't listen to you."

At that comment, Lestrade almost expected to receive a bloody nose as well. Instead, the young man began to laugh heartily. He struggled to catch his breath and his white cheeks changed to a rosy pink. Lestrade raised an eyebrow curiously. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, you lot," the man responded, retaining his posture. "You all think because I'm homeless that means I'm an amateur. That's honestly the most hilarious thing I've heard in a long time..." He smiled cheekily and rubbed his eyes. His pupils showed to remain dilated. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sorry, but are you high or something?"

The man's smile suddenly faded and his dark eyes examined Lestrade quickly. For a moment, he went from an amused young man to a buffering computer, scanning everything about him. "First year working here, correct?"

Lestrade blinked, and any other rude thoughts on the young man suddenly vanished. "Sorry, what?"

"First year, yes?" Lestrade didn't answer, but the man disregarded it. "No father and your mother passed away about five years ago from cancer. You live alone but unlike most people you enjoy the solitude because you're still very _proud_ of your work here, so you wouldn't need anyone else, at least for right now. No pets or anything but you aren't interested in them anyway because they bring back painful memories of your passed mother who certainly had owned several dogs while you were still a child. She passed and you got the dogs but like said, painful memories, a little thing called sentiment. But rather than keeping them to cherish the memories you still had you got rid of them as soon as possible so you could mourn her demise on your own terms. Am I wrong?"

Lestrade swallowed and his heart thumped heavily in his cold chest. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He smiled very kindly and reached his long arm across the table. Lestrade took his hand and gave a firm handshake. "Consider yourself in the work force, Mr. Holmes."

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

"What do you mean, 'attacked'?" John demanded to Mycroft. The eldest of the Holmes brothers lounged in his favorite, comfortable chair close to the left window in the living room. John sat at an angle across from him, as did Sherlock, who held his hands in a praying position. He was thinking about the situation with Lestrade, more than likely, John assumed.

"Moriarty is closing in on Sherlock," Mycroft replied calmly. "In case you thought that your captured sister and both of your friends' disappearances were just a mere coincidence, remember that Moriarty is planning something. At this point in time he's even gotten to the closest of people to Sherlock, excluding you. Lestrade was a ticket if Sherlock needed it, and now he's out of the picture."

"But you say you were attacked," John remarked patiently. "Yet as far as I can tell, everything is fine."

"I am fine, John. As I told you before, my surveillance is far too advanced and accurate for Moriarty to break through. An elaborate attack was planned for me, and nearly went through perfectly, but I managed to send him on the run again." He paused to drink from his teacup before continuing the conversation. "The only major concern now is for you, John."

"What? I'm fine," John protested.

"Moriarty has everyone - excluding me - that he needs to fulfill his plan for April 29th," Mycroft said, "except for you. You're the final part of his plan, and he'll be getting to you soon. There's no stopping him, John. This part of the future is a part that can never change."

"I doubt that," John answered with a small laugh, when they're conversation was interrupted by Ivan Simmons walking in the room. After Lestrade's disappearance, Sherlock still managed to have it arranged that Ivan live with them until the case was sorted. Ivan looked at the three curiously. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all," John responded before Mycroft could get a word out. "Actually, Ivan, we were discussing the blackout, and I'm just wondering, if you wouldn't mind - what did you see in your flash forward?"

Ivan smiled a little and fisted his hands in his pockets. "Well, I wasn't living in this house - which is marvelous, by the way - and instead I was going out on a date with a really pretty girl." He smiled a little, and then nodded to the group before going back to his room. John's eyes followed as he departed. "Sherlock, why did you insist that we have him with us?"

"I told you before," Sherlock spoke finally, moving his hands to his lap. "There's something about Simmons that I don't quite like. I bet he has a firm association with Moriarty."

"I really doubt that," John stated, stretching his legs. It had been a long day and he was starting to get tired, especially his limbs. "You don't have to assume he's a part of it just because it's a weird case."

"_Just_ a weird case?" Sherlock stood up from the chair. "He also had, at least from his story, no idea who would've killed her. Everyone has enemies. I could tell that he lied to me while he told the story. Then in his flash forward, he's enjoying a perfect little life outside of the crime. No ordinary man would be able to go on a date for a while after the death of a relative." He removed his scarf as he headed for his room with a sense of finality. "At times like these, John, no one is who they seem to be."

**Things are slowly starting to wrap up. I hope you're enjoying it. It'd be nice to get reviews letting me know if you are or not ^.^ Anyway, expect the next chapter soon! Later guys :)**


	15. Falling Into Place

Lestrade took Sherlock to the actual crime scene and filled all the gaps that he didn't know about the case already. Sherlock nodded as he spoke, as though he added all the facts and little details to his storage space in his brain, and finally gave his opinion on the matter. He told Lestrade exactly, word for word, what he had told Anderson previously that evening.

"The man wasn't murdered." Sherlock wrapped up his deductions as they walked down the street and away from the crime scene. "The killer - more likely a teenager associated with the man - accidentally caused something; in fact, he may have had nothing to do with it at all, but perhaps didn't want people to _think_ he did it. So a low self-esteem teenager? That narrows the list down considerably. Next you've got the way the blood is arranged around the man's head. This part is rather simple, really. You need to compare the way blood looks when you slosh it out onto the pavement from a container, such as a cup or saucer, and the way it would normally exit from an injured human head. From the latter it wouldn't be nearly a circle as it was arranged back there; plus, the distance from which he crawled when he was first 'attacked' to where he finally died and the amount of blood loss in between is hardly accurate. It would have to be an almost equal amount in between the attack and death. It wasn't at all."

Lestrade nodded as they arrived back at Scotland Yard, where most officers had already left for home. "You suppose the man's teenage son did it, then?"

"Obviously." They got back into Lestrade's office to finish their conversation. "The teenager says he found him and claimed he was attacked by a masked figure when in all reality, the father probably tripped or something and bashed his head in. The boy didn't know what to do. He was in shock and thought others would believe _he_ killed him. You know how people love to assume things these days."

"Right," Lestrade answered. "How do you do that?"

Sherlock blinked upon never hearing that question before. "Do what?"

"That thing you're doing. You told me things about myself that I've never told anyone in the whole world. So how do you figure it all out?"

"I merely observe," Sherlock confirmed, "and through my observations I make deductions. That's the big problem with most people; they see, but they don't observe. You know how it's said that humans can only access twelve percent or so of their brain?"

"Yeah?"

"That's because that's how much they _let_ themselves use." Sherlock smiled again, and Lestrade did expect he was high. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Once you get an idea, the neurons in your brain start firing and they make a little pathway. You can access these pathways whenever you want, but to do that, you need to consistently remember and discuss the information that made the pathway. For instance, let's say you learn a new vocabulary word, such as...perdurable, meaning lasting very lengthly. Most people in general already have pathways dealing with vocabulary they enjoy using, and enough of those vocabulary words create rooms from the pathways. In school, the teacher assigns you the word perdurable and has you write the word down and, perhaps, write out an original sentence using the word correctly. Teachers think this will teach you, but they are incorrect."

"Not unless you use memorization," Lestrade opinionated. "If you just memorize it then you're good to go."

"Not true," Sherlock answered with a smile. "Memorization deserves a separate category. It is _not_ learning. If a teacher wants a student to learn the word perdurable then not only should the student write it a lot but they must speak it a lot. Like I mentioned before, those neurons start firing up as they use that word with consistency. Suddenly they start using the word absent-mindedly, not even realizing they're using it, and that is good. That means the word is a definite part of the room. It's not about memorization. Once you learn something, you can never, _ever_ forget it. The human brain literally _is_ a computer, and you can store almost infinity in it. Can you remember where you went for your sixth birthday?"

"Um..." Lestrade tried to remember very hard, making him feel even older. "Nope, it was too long ago. Forgotten it by now."

"No you haven't," Sherlock answered, excitement in his voice. "That's the wonderful thing. You can't remember, but you didn't forget. If I took you to that place without knowing it, you would remember. The pathway that day made in your brain is still up there somewhere, but it's difficult to access because it's been unused for quite some time. It doesn't just disappear, though."

Lestrade nodded, taking the information in. "So what, by you saying that our brains make pathways and room and such...our brain is kind of like a little house?"

Sherlock nodded with a grin. "I consider mine a palace, but it can be whatever you want it to be."

"I'd like to test that out on you, then." Lestrade smiled a little and thought to himself. "Okay, I've got one. What's the fifty-second vocabulary word in your...mind palace?"

Sherlock smiled. "Aberrant, meaning wandering or abnormal. There's several more ones where that came from. I called it a palace for a reason."

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

Lestrade woke suddenly from a sudden nightmare - strangely, he didn't remember falling asleep in the first place - and reminded himself that he was tied up to a pole. He looked to his left. Molly was still there and still awake, but her cheeks were damp from tears. "You alright, Molly?" Lestrade asked her.

"I suppose I could be better," she answered him. "I just wish Sherlock would hurry up and save us...well, you, I mean." She crossed her legs as best as she could in her position.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade shifted his position so he could get a better look at her. "He'll save both of us."

Molly sighed and looked around her. Outside, she could barely hear the sound of rain. They were more than likely held in some sort of basement. "Of course he'll save both of us. But I'm not important, so...he'll really just be here for you. I know he cares about you a lot."

Lestrade nodded. "Well yeah, he cares about me. We've been through... Well, don't think like that. Of course he cares about you, too."

"No he doesn't." She breathed in deep and heavily, missing the fresh smell of clean oxygen from outside rather than the musky scent she got down here. "Have you seen the way he looks at me? I wish he would notice me and I try to get him to, I really do. He pretends to flirt with me so he can get what he want. I feel used when I'm around him."

As best as he could in his binding, Lestrade turned in her direction. "Do you know why he goes to you?"

"Why?"

"Because he trusts you." He tugged at the rope binding his wrists to the pole in a pointless attempt to get out. With a sad sigh, he looked back at Molly. "When I met Sherlock, he trusted me pretty quick, but that's just me. Other people, well... It takes time. You know how he reads people? He read who I was and figured I was a good man based on what he saw. He did the same to you, and since you're so loyal, he goes to you more than almost anyone. How many people do you think _like_ Sherlock?"

Molly laughed, a gentle and nervous laugh. "Not a lot, I guess. You're right, then." Lestrade smiled successfully and remembered his flash forward suddenly. "I was just wondering, what did you see in your flash forward?"

Barely heard was the sound of a creaky door opening. Jim was probably back and would be in the room with them momentarily. Molly nodded. "I was going somewhere in a cab and I was in a hurry. I was worried."

"Do you know _why_ you were worried?"

Before she could answer, Jim came in the room with two bags with the McDonald's label on them. "Brought you some nibbles!" He greeted cheerfully. "I love nibbles."

Lestrade sighed at the man whom he loathed and found most annoying. "And how do you expect us to eat with our hands tied?"

"Oh, I'll let you free just long enough for you to eat," Jim answered, "and I'll keep a sharp eye on you so you don't try anything." He placed the bags next to his hostages and went around behind Molly first, untying her with an experienced hand. She rubbed her wrists, aching from the rope, and opened her bag of food as Lestrade was untied. He wished he had his gun on him; Jim would be down before he could mutter another word in that annoying cheerful tone. Lestrade glanced at the food and tried to hide the fact that he was actually very hungry.

"I've got some news for you, inspector." Jim sat cross-legged in front of him and smiled big. "I was in the other room - which, by the way, I hope you didn't think you were the only two Sherlock could turn to that I have under my loving 'care.' I've got John Watson's sister and a few others in another room. But anyway - I gave them their food before coming to you, and while I was in there, I got a text from a friend of mine!" He clasped his hands together excitedly. "He's my partner, the one using all the darts for me, since I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and considered punching the man. He just might.

"Anyway," Jim continued, "for purposes dealing with a case involving him, he's living in with Sherlock, John, and Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock is pretty suspicious about the man but he doesn't know that my buddy will be bringing John here quite soon."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "What? No!"

"What? Yes!" Jim mocked with that cheery tone. "Then, all the puzzle pieces will fall into place, and I will destroy Sherlock! Isn't that exciting?" He jumped up and twirled around towards the door. "Oh, the life of a consulting criminal," he aired aloud as he left the room.

Lestrade shook his head sadly and looked back down at the food. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

**I'm so sorry for the delayed update. Our Internet thing totally fried after a storm so we had to get it replaced. But it's here now. :)**


	16. The Final Necessity

**CAUTION: Another time leap. Enjoy!**

After a busy morning, Lestrade chose to have lunch back at the house, mainly so he could check on Sherlock. He had moved in just until he could have enough money to handle the real world on his own. Lestrade fumbled with his keys, unlocked the wooden door, and gasped at the sight inside. The entire living room was a mess - papers were scattered on the coffee table and floor, and the lamp next to the couch had fallen on the floor. The bulb had clearly broken, being that glass surrounded the area. Sherlock, laying on the couch, opened his bloodshot eyes and waved hello to Lestrade. "Back a bit early?"

"Sherlock -" He stepped over a pile of papers, not sure whose they were and didn't want to risk damaging anything important - "what the hell happened here?"

Sherlock sat up with a huff and looked at the scene around him. "Oh, right, all that. I was looking for something and then I read all of your papers from your study."

"Why?"

"I was bored. And you didn't let me join you to Scotland Yard! What was I supposed to do, play the fiddle or whatnot?" He stood up from the couch, only to swoon momentarily. Lestrade sighed and placed his face in his hand. "Sherlock, we need to talk."

"I'll clean it all up -"

"Not just that, Sherlock." Lestrade motioned for Sherlock to return to the couch, and he obeyed. Lestrade sat next to him and looked right at him with a stern expression. "Listen, I let you in because you needed help, and I wanted to be that, exactly. I considered myself your temporary help, at least until you can get on your feet. But...you need to _let_ me help you, and your consistent drug use is the major problem right now." After he paused, Sherlock nodded for him to go on. "Anyway, you always talk about your mind palace and such, and your mental skills do impress me. But I've also noticed that your brain works a lot faster when you're sober. That's because these drugs aren't healthy for you in any way. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes, yes, alright," Sherlock grumbled. "I need to protect my brain or I'll die early. Got it."

"No, it's not..." Lestrade sighed a big, sad sigh, and his eyes drifted towards the floor. "You need to stop with the drugs or I'll have to let you go back on the streets."

Sherlock's expression went grave and he didn't speak a word. Lestrade waited, but he remained silent. The ticking clock on the wall reminded him of his limited time, and he stood up. "I'll have to skip up on the lunch, unfortunately. Listen to me, Sherlock. We're going to make a deal here, alright? I want you off the drugs and never even touch them again. If I come back tonight and you're still here, then you agreed to it. But if I return and you're gone, well... You know. Okay?" Sherlock didn't respond, so Lestrade sighed and left the house almost shamefully.

When he returned late that night, Sherlock wasn't in the living room. "Sherlock, are you here?" No response. _So he made his own choice and now he's gone. Okay. That's fine. Fine with me._ Lestrade shook his head. He'd miss that kid, that genius. As he shook his head, he also realized something was wrong.

Sherlock had said he would clean up the mess he made, and it was clear that he had started to. A stack of the papers laid on the couch, but others were still scattered amongst the room. _What stopped him from finishing the job?_ A breeze was heard ahead of him, so he went to the kitchen. The window was smashed in, and a small bit of blood was noticeable on the white tiled floor. _Someone, more likely two people, broke in through the kitchen while Sherlock was cleaning. He heard them coming in and more than likely tried to take him out. But being outnumbered, he was knocked out when his head slammed into the wall and he collapsed unconscious on the floor._

_ Dammit, Sherlock. What have you gotten yourself into this time?_

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

_He wasn't running fast enough. His legs, weak and shaken, collapsed over each other like jelly, and the ground scraped his knuckles as he fell. He always got back up, though; slowing down meant his death._

_ The growling that had been behind him once was all around him now. Moriarty was definitely winning at this point. John trembled like crazy, and looking around him, the setting of Smith Tank confirmed that he'd finally lost. "No," he mumbled, but it was too late. He felt the dart go into his neck, and then another, and another, until he was screaming in agony from those angry, blue-threaded darts. He cold floor suddenly pressed against his front but the darts didn't stop coming. He managed to look up momentarily to see Sherlock, his greatest friend, staring at him with a horrified expression. He didn't move a muscle, though. "Come on, Sherlock!" John screamed through the chilled air. "Help me! PLEASE!" Sherlock wanted to move, so it seemed, but he must have been in shock. The growling in the room suddenly became a focused point, and the quick body of Jim Moriarty appeared behind Sherlock, a gun firm in his grip, pointed directly at the detective. He smiled at John and pulled the trigger._

John's eyes shot open, and the pain of the nightmare's evil darts remained momentarily. His shaking breath echoed in the large bedroom, and as he sat up, he groaned. The clock informed him that he'd slept nearly until noon. "Dammit."

"Are you okay, mister?" John jumped when realizing Ivan was in the room as well, leaning next to the open door. He had somewhat of a sassy look, his arms crossed firmly and his head cocked to the side. "I heard you yelling out so I went to check on you."

"Oh, yeah, I'm..." He stood up and ruffled his hair. "Yes, thank you. Where's Sherlock?"

"Talking to Mycroft in the living room. What did you dream about?"

John laughed gently. "My flash forward was a bit scary... I'm having nightmares about a terrifying event that hasn't even happened yet. That's not even normal, a sentence like that..."

"It makes sense, believe me. We've only a few more days until April 29th, right?" He glanced around the room. "Nothing is normal, John. That's one thing that I've learned so far in this lifetime. Nothing is ever normal. We only wish that it was." He took a step forward into the room and eyed John carefully. "Even the consulting criminal wishes for things to be normal."

"Yeah, right... Wait." John took a step back, the back of his knees pressing against the bed. "What did you just say?"

Ivan laughed and reached into his jacket, pulling out some sort of tube. "He really craves normal, Moriarty does. That's why he spends his time killing off all the people who are too close to being what he is. That's why he targets you and Sherlock. You just aren't normal enough for his taste."

"How do you know this?" Ivan smiled again and pulled from his pocket a little blue-threaded dart. "Oh," John gasped. "You shoot the darts."

"Moriarty doesn't like to get his hands dirty," Ivan continued, positioning the dart inside the tube. "Usually he blows things up and that's when he sends Moran out to do the work. But he's basically enjoying a vacation right now, so it's my turn."

"Moran? Who's Moran?"

"You'll find out at some point," Ivan grinned. "He's even tougher than me."

_If I yell out now, Sherlock can come and get this guy out,_ John thought. "So what now? Are you going to take me to your boss?"

"Correct. He's waiting for you."

"I guess you're fired, then." Before Ivan could question the statement, John yelled out: "Sherlock, it's Ivan! He -" Ivan angrily brought the open end of the tube to his mouth and blew hard, and the dart shot out into John's neck. "Damn," John muttered, pulling it out with weakening fingers. Soon, the room went black, and he felt strong arms catch him before he could hit the carpet.

"It's almost time," Mycroft spoke harshly to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. "I know that. We have three days. So what?"

"Aren't you going to try and keep someone from taking John?"

"I'm sure it takes time to do that. Ivan is with John right now. There's no way he would try with us in the room opposite of his."

As Mycroft began to argue again, the scream reached their ears. _"Sherlock, it's Ivan! He -"_

"No!" Sherlock yelled, jumping from the chair and racing to the room. But it was too late; John was unconscious and Ivan gripped him tightly, holding a gun to his head. "It's too late, Mr. Holmes," he spat. "Let us to the window or I'll kill him here and now, right in front of you."

Sherlock searched in his brain for a solution, anything to end the madness before him, but he was out of luck and hope at this point. With a defeated sigh, he stepped back into the hallway, as did Ivan, and he smashed the window open with his foot. Sherlock watched John, hoping that he faked his unconsciousness, but there was nothing. Ivan leapt from the window and Sherlock started for it, peering out. They were gone.

"Someone must have been waiting," Sherlock muttered. "He couldn't have gotten away that fast on his own." Moriarty was right, in every sense; he was burning Sherlock, burning him into an angry monster, and he didn't plan on stopping until he was driven to insanity, or killed by his own hand. He didn't have the slightest idea where Moriarty was, only where he would try to kill John in three days. He turned to Mycroft and asked a question he never asked anyone before: "What do I do now?"

Mycroft looked his brother in the eye. You wait. That's all you can do at this point."

"There has to be more than just waiting like a coward!" Sherlock glanced out the window again. "I can't wait until he's dead."

"He's not going to die, Sherlock. He's strong enough to make it through this. He'll escape before you know it."

"You know nothing." Sherlock glared from the smashed window to his brother. "Nothing at all." He stormed to his room and locked the door, where he planned to stay for three of the longest days in his life.

**I'm so sorry, I've had a lot going on. I've got an injured spine, knee, and a concussion, and that's what got me to stop being a normal human and sit down to catch up on FanFiction. :p Hope you liked it, and get ready for the next chapter. :)**


	17. House Fire

**Note: This is the last chapter that begins with a flashback-type ordeal with Lestrade and Sherlock. So enjoy it! :p**

It wasn't hard locating Sherlock and his attacker; clearly the criminal had a lack of experience. Lestrade figured this because no one runs around the town and into their house while dragging an unconscious man alongside them. As he arrived, Lestrade instructed the officers to wait outside until it was time. There was no telling what he might find inside.

The door was unlocked - good one. Lestrade stepped in, closing the door behind him and pulling his gun from its holder. "Okay," he whispered into his earpiece. "No one seems to be around. He must be hiding. There's a back door. I want you going in through there on my mark."

"Got it," Anderson answered.

"There's a basement here. I think that's where they are. It'll be the wooden door on your immediate right." Lestrade opened the door - also unlocked - and peered in as he walked down the creaky steps. He was right.

"I knew you'd find me here." The man - his personality more like that of a boy - shook terrifically, a gun pointed at Sherlock's head. He looked up at Lestrade with some sort of annoyance, and a stream of blood trickled over his left eye from a wound on his forehead. He was bound tightly to a chair.

"Why'd you do this?" Lestrade asked, pointing his gun at the stranger.

"You put that _down!_" he screamed out, and pressed his own gun against Sherlock's temple. Strangely, he winced.

"What did you do to him?" Lestrade demanded.

The man laughed. He had a clean, shaven face, and raggedy clothes with muddy boots. Insanity filled his gaze. "I'll kill him right here and now if you don't stop pointing that gun at me." Lestrade sighed and placed the gun on the floor, and he kicked it to the man. "What did you do to Sherlock?"

The man held back laughter as he responded, "I gave him some drugs. It's obvious he's the type, anyway. If I don't kill him myself then the amount I gave him will." Sherlock groaned, attempting to say something, but was interrupted by the man. "You shut up! You can't talk!"

"Why Sherlock?"

"I was asked to by a friend." The man's hand continued to shake, but he had gained more control of it. "He thought it'd be funny."

"Who told you?"

"I'm not telling."

Sherlock began coughing violently, and his whole body shook in the chair. Lestrade started for him, but the man pointed the gun at him. "You stay right there! Don't you dare touch me!"

"I'm not even armed," Lestrade spat. "I gave you my damn gun! You're the only one here pointing a weapon!"

"But you're the police!"

"No I'm not," Lestrade lied, feeling inside his coat pocket for the pepper spray. With hidden movements, he slipped it into his sleeve. The man clearly didn't notice. "Mind if I check?"

"Oh, I insist," Lestrade answered sharply, extending his arms. He eyed Sherlock, who watched with worried eyes, with desperate eyes. The stranger began to pat Lestrade down, and as he turned around to check behind, Lestrade turned as well, swiftly, and sprayed it in the man's face. He then took a breath and slammed his forehead against the man's. He fell to the floor, unconscious. "Moron," he smiled to himself, and rushed to Sherlock. "I need a medical team in here, fast," he spoke into the earpiece, untying Sherlock. "Someone needs to handcuff the kidnapper while he's still down." Upon being untied, Sherlock stood up and tried to speak, but he fell back down and began shaking again. The officers rushed in at this time, and the medical team took Sherlock to the ambulance. Lestrade was told that if it had been much longer, Sherlock's heart would have stopped even before getting him out of the house.

Lestrade opened the hospital door to find Sherlock, awake but even more pale than he normally was, with a blank look in his bright eyes. "How are you?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm fine. I've had seizures from drugs before, but that was the worst." He smiled at Lestrade. "Nice move back there."

"What move?"

"With the pepper spray. I'll have to try that if I'm ever in that position." They laughed and talked for a while until Lestrade finally remembered something. "I never really got an answer from you on whether or not you're staying."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock sighed deeply and answered, "I don't think, that after this experience, I'll even look at those drugs for a month."

"Ever, Sherlock. I don't want you doing them ever."

"But..." Sherlock sat up in the bed and rubbed his tired eyes. "I know I think faster when I'm sober, but I'm usually a dick, basically to everyone. No one likes me now, but it's even worse when I'm not on the drugs."

"If you keep doing them, you'll lose that genius part of you forever." Sherlock nodded in deep consideration and finally, "Alright, I'll stop using them. For good."

"And I'll kick you out, _for good,_ if you do use them. Deal?"

Sherlock smiled, and they shook hands. "Deal."

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

"Unghh..." John's skull, weighed down by the hand of cruel anesthetics, faced him to the floor. He lifted his head, only to see stars.

"Wakey-wake! You've been out for a while now."

"M..." John grimaced, unable to see or, he discovered, move. "Moriarty..." After several moments, his vision cleared and he found himself in a dark, cold room, with two familiar faces - Molly and Lestrade. Jim stood above him, a mellow look glowing around his entire being. He was satisfied. "It took a lot of planning to finally get you. One wrong move and I'd be the one imprisoned right now."

"You will be," John groaned, "when I'm done with you." He doubted his own words, though, just when his face was struck by an angry fist. "I'll never be defeated by your little friend!" Jim snapped. "I know _so_ much more about everything than he does! I even know that there'll be another flash forward."

"Wh..._what?_" John shook more stars - provided by the punch - from his eyes and looked up at his enemy. "When? How?"

"On the 29th," Jim began, leaning on the pole John was bound to, "at six in the morning, what everyone saw in their flash forward will become the truth - in your case, death. And at 6:14 in the morning on that same day, a second and much more powerful flash forward will go in effect. I have protection from it this time." John noticed him fondle a large ring on his finger as he said this. "I won't need to see my future. I will make my own once Sherlock is dead, once you're dead..."

He soon left, and John felt more empty than ever before.

"How do we get out, John?" Molly begged. "How will Sherlock know we're here when even _we_ don't know?"

"He'll make deductions," John answered her. His face felt swollen and he wished for a comfortable bed, but he knew he probably wouldn't get another one of those. "You know how he is. He'll figure it out in five seconds."

"Then why hasn't he?"

John nodded. "Maybe a bit more than five seconds..."

"Guys." Lestrade tugged at the rope behind him. "I think I might be able to get out of this."

"Really?"

"Hold on." He took a deep breath and pulled with all his strength, but it wasn't working. "Damn. Hold on." He tried again, and a few more times, and his face went crimson. "Okay, it'll take time. But I'm loosening it a lot."

"What's the use?" Molly sighed. "Even if you do get out, when Jim gets back he'll tie you up again."

"I've got a plan. I already know that in - what is it, three days? - he'll take John away to kill him. So after he's left I'll get out and get to John in time."

"I love how we talk about my coming death like it's a regular topic," John laughed. "But then again, it's been six months." And six months of knowing what would happen to him? At that point, he wasn't even scared.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

_Two days later_

Sherlock sat in his room, as he always did, just thinking. That's how he kept up with his mind palace and how he remembered everything; at the end of the day, he reviewed every minute he experienced that day, deciding what was important information to be stored in the hard drive, and demolishing the files of useless information. He would repeat the process until he felt confident that the information could easily be accessed if and when it needed to be. He hadn't done this process for days, being that he was abnormally busy, but now he caught up, since there was nothing else to do but wait until he could save John. Now it was midnight: April 29th.

And for some reason he could smell smoke.

He assumed it was some fire nearby, but since it didn't affect him, he went back to reviewing his mental notes. And then as the heating rose, a stranger - probably a servant of Mycroft's - burst into the room, without even knocking. "Sir! We need to go!" he exclaimed in wheezy breaths. "There's a fire! How did you not notice? We called for immediate evacuation."

Sherlock jumped from the bed. "I didn't notice."

It was the living room, which, sadly, was the only way to the door. Carefully, they stepped through, avoiding flames, and made it safely outside. Sherlock searched around him for his brother, but he was no where to be seen. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked the servant.

"He went back inside, just a few minutes ago. He needed to grab some th-"

With a dangerous roar, every window of the home was smashed open by colorful flames, and within seconds, every inch, inside and out, was a fireplace.

**Ugh, I think I did a weak job on this one. I hope it'll suffice, though. We're coming close to the end! :] And if curious, the whole deal with Sherlock and Lestrade was important to me at least, showing that Sherlock learned a lot from Lestrade and trusted him more than he liked to show. Basically you could say he did stop the drugs but probably got back on them at one point, and Lestrade kicked him out. He went searching for a decent place with a decent flatmate, and eventually found John Watson and Baker Street. :) Stay tuned!**


	18. Time To Go

**I already know how this story is going to end somewhat. And I'm so excited to put it in effect: it's like when you've seen the Reichenbach episode but your friend hasn't, and you feel like you'll explode because you can't fangirl together.**

**Get ready. ;)**

"It's time to go."

The voice belonged to Ivan Simmons, who stood at the doorway with a navy blue sack. Jim stood alongside him, a knowing smile on his lips.

John had waited to hear that for what felt like an eternity. He had an advantage that most didn't have; he had the rare opportunity of walking to his death, knowing what would happen, being able to prepare and expect. For this he was most grateful.

Jim went behind him and began untying the rope. Relief flushed through his wrists as they were allowed to breathe their blood again. "You two be careful," John mumbled to Lestrade, who nodded his response. John noticed a somewhat loose hand waving goodbye from behind him; he had loosened the rope quite a lot, unnoticed, but he feared not getting free enough in time to get to John.

"Not to be rude or anything," Ivan snickered, "but we'll have to put this over you." John didn't get to question or to say anything else to Lestrade; the blue sack concealed his vision for the rest of the journey to Smith Tank.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

Sherlock smiled at the officer. "So how long have you been in this line of business again?"

"What?" Sherlock didn't know the man, or vice versa; they'd never met or even shared a glance. "Mr. Holmes, I'd like you to focus on the task at hand. We need to figure out who attacked you and your brother."

"Common sense, really." Sherlock paced the interrogation office. He was alone with the officer; others were in the other rooms working.

It was just Sherlock and this man he'd never seen before.

"Then who did it?" the officer asked.

"All in good time. So how long have you worked here?"

_The shoes. The badge. The jacket. The gaze. He is a liar, and a bad one._

The officer shrugged. "Not too long. It's just a whatever sort of thing right now. I don't intend to stay." He swallowed and looked to his right.

_I've got him._

Sherlock started for the door saying, "This has been very annoying indeed, and as I hate to admit it, I'm worried for my big brother, and concealing me in the room with his possible murderer isn't wise." Sherlock forced a smile, reaching for the knob. "You don't want to get hurt, now do you?" His hand rested threateningly on the knob, begging for the officer's admittance. _Go on, say it. Say you killed my brother. And let me know where John is while you're at it._

"Right." The officer smiled, pulling his gun from its holster. "Move away from the door, please."

Sherlock smiled satisfactorily and stepped back as instructed. "Moriarty, then?" The officer pointed the gun at Sherlock as he stepped around the room, a slower pace than before. Sherlock smiled at his silence. "He's probably had you in what, just a few weeks?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come _on!_ I saw you lie. As you spoke your eyes shifted to the right which, in the brain, is used for _storytelling._ It's a good indication if you ever want to know whether you are receiving false information or not. You'll always look to your right, because the right side of your brain is searching for a story to tell."

The officer swallowed, but didn't put down his gun. "So what? Is that all you've got?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock took a deep breath and began. "First are your shoes. Bought today, more likely. They don't just look perfect and clean - I can see the corner of the price sticker on the bottom of the right one. Forgot to pull it off when you purchased them in a hurry?"

"I-I wouldn't -"

"Then there's your badge. I've worked with Lestrade for quite some time and Moriarty could have done a lot better observing. The font size for your title is too small. Common sense."

"Is that all y-"

"Your jacket," Sherlock interrupted again with a hiss, "has some ash on the shoulder, doesn't it? Perhaps you're the one who started the fire in the first place, but you were a bit delayed when realizing you had to face my brother. Chances are you tied him up good and well to be left behind and burn in the flames, or maybe someone took him away to Moriarty from the back. Either way, you got some good evidence that you were there for the starting of the fire, and weren't just called up for the situation so suddenly as you proclaim."

The officer finally rested the gun down by his side and gave the smile that agreed to everything. "Marcus is the name. And you're right. I'm working with Moriarty, and there's no way I'm letting you out of this office until I have word that your little friend is dead." He stepped to the door. "I'm going out for a coffee, and I'll make sure someone keeps an eye on you. You can't leave."

"For now," Sherlock called as the door closed gently. He only had a few more hours until the blackout was to come true. And so far, everything was accurate.

And although he could never admit it, not even to John or to anyone else, Sherlock was actually scared.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

Uncomfortable, blind shuffling and the scrape of pebbles beneath John's feet signaled that they were close. After only a few more seconds, the sack was lifted. They were back at Smith Tank, and he stood where Lestrade predicted he would lie in only a short amount of time. A few minutes of silence confused John. "What happened to the Blue Hand Club? I'd think they'd be partying right now but I don't hear anything."

"I dealt with them," Jim answered. "Cleaned this place out good and well. I'm having a busy morning, if you didn't notice." Ivan snickered silently at his response and slid his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, trust me. I did." John guessed that having "dealt with them" could be a nicer term for something more similar to an extermination, and a _very_ unfriendly one. He almost didn't care, though. They were sick bastards. If Moriarty didn't have them killed, then they'd do it on their own. "So what now? Going to kill me, I suppose?"

"Of course. But..." Jim stepped around the room, eyeing his surroundings, as though an angry detective would jump out at any moment to reclaim his pet. "I might as well let you know my plan first."

"Hmmm. Okay, let's hear it."

"First I kill you."

"Yes, so I know."

Jim smiled and clasped his hands together as he stepped around the room almost noiselessly. "Sherlock finds you and goes after me, angrily. We talk and threaten and all of those goodies. Then, fourteen minutes after six, he blacks out and I get him good and ready."

"For what?"

"Basically pain." He laughed humorlessly.

John shook his head and protested, "You'll black out too, won't you?"

"Like said before, dear Johnny, I've got me some good ol' protection. When Sherlock finally does wake up, I'll give him so much pain, and then I'll end his life. It'll be my own first kill, and I'm excited to use it on the freak."

John didn't even know what happened; suddenly he was yelling and thrashing about, projecting his fists against his enemy's, fighting Ivan's grip attempting to pull him away. When he came to his senses he found Jim on the ground, nose bleeding, and Ivan restraining his arms. Everyone's breathing sounded harsh in the empty room.

Jim snarled and got to his feet. Eyes of black night glared right into John as he clenched his own fists and knocked a punch straight at his nose. John gasped as the hot blood shot from his nostril, and he struggled against Ivan's grip in hopes of getting free. He knew, however, that he couldn't leave this building again.

Angrily, Jim threw more punches at John until he had fallen to the floor with exhaustion and weakness. Jim stood above him, not with pride, but with an angry understanding. "You're a poor excuse for a soldier," Jim spat. "You started working with the sociopath and you grew too _soft_ for him. You're too weak to be called a warrior anymore, John Watson, and that's the death of you now." As he stepped into the darkness, John felt more alone than ever.

Moments later, the dart pierced his skin. And then another.

He was ready to cry out in fear, but he only received two darts, rather than in the nightmare where he received hundreds. He pulled one out of his neck. It was wound around with a thin red string.

_Red string?_ he asked himself. _I thought they were blue._

_ Unless...it's a different kind of dart?_

Then the chest pain roared inside of him and he felt his death knocking.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

It was 5:45. Sherlock paced the room, officer Marcus keeping his hawk eyes burning into him threateningly. It had started as a low, patient pace, but had grown into quick and furious steps through his anger. He was running out of time, and somewhere nearby, so was John. He was about to lose his control when Anderson stepped in the room and marched straight to Sherlock angrily. "You little bastard," he growled under his breath.

Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh and responded, "What did I do to hurt your feelings this time?"

"You know _exactly_ what you did!" Anderson faced him and suddenly grabbed him by his shirt, hard, and slammed his back into the wall. Sherlock growled and spat, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Marcus switched into character as to hide any suspicion and approached the two. "Guys, we need to calm it down, alright?"

"I won't calm _anything,_" Anderson snapped. "This psychopath has gotten on my last nerve, and I'll deal with him the way I choose to." Keeping a grip on Sherlock's shirt, Anderson raised his clenched fist to punch him. Marcus stepped closer and said warningly, "Hey man, you need to watch it -"

To Sherlock's surprise, Anderson let go of his shirt and instead grabbed Marcus's gun from its holster with one hand and punched him across the nose with the other. As Marcus leaned back up, Anderson kicked him hard in the forehead and he fell to the floor lifelessly. Sherlock eyed Anderson curiously. "I'd like an explanation for what just happened."

"I got a call from Lestrade." When certain that Marcus was done moving for the time being, he turned around to face Sherlock. "That Moriarty-whatever guy had him in custody but when he left, he got himself out and found his phone. He called me and asked about you, and that's when I figured something was strange about how this random officer, out of nowhere, wouldn't let you leave the interrogation room."

"I'm glad you used for brain for once," Sherlock answered as they exited the room. That was the best "thank you" he'd ever given Anderson. "Round up as many officers as possible and find us at Smith Tank."

"No one is even there -"

"Shut up and do as I say. Get an ambulance, as well." Without another word, Sherlock ran out as fast as he could, making his way through the dimly lit streets to save his friend.

At Smith Tank, the garage had been opened. He observed the tracks in the sand and pebbles as he approached the vast building. _They were already here. John, too._ He stepped inside, and although dark, he saw the figure of a man lying on the ground.

_No._

"John!" Sherlock ran straight to him, but he was already unconscious, and probably had been for quite some time. He knelt down beside him and rolled him onto his back. There was the dart, the evil red dart, stuck inside his neck. He felt for a pulse, and after what seemed like an eternity...

_Thump._

"Alive," Sherlock gasped happily. But there couldn't be much time left for him. His pulse was too faint for him to be okay. He slid the dart out of his neck, and then, he heard a man clear his throat. _Moriarty._

Jim stood several feet away from Sherlock and smiled a winner's smile. Then, within the shadows, he turned and walked away. He knew Sherlock would follow him - he was too angry to do otherwise - and within a few moments, he heard his footsteps following behind him. Jim smiled and shook his head. It was six in the morning, and just as he saw in his flash forward, he had everyone right where they needed to be.

**._.**

**The next chapter won't be the last, but possibly the one after that will. Hope you liked this one because I sure did enjoy writing it. :)**


	19. Wheel me, John

Sherlock raced through the building - which was far bigger on the inside that it had seemed to be before - until finally, he caught up to Jim in one of the several old offices that he hadn't checked at his last visit to Smith Tank. Jim smiled, hands behind his back casually, and leaned on the desk next to him.

"Moriarty," Sherlock aired. Suddenly he came to a realization from what he observed on Jim's expression: he must have believe John _was_ dead. From then on, Jim expected his flash forward to go perfectly from start to finish. So far, he thought he was in the lead. All Sherlock needed to do now was keep to the script. "You've won, haven't you?" As Sherlock saw in the flash forward, Jim smiled that fake friendly smile, and he stepped away from the desk. "I told you, didn't I? I _told_ you. When we first met, remember?" Sherlock heard him crack his knuckles from behind him and he shifted his position. "I promised to burn the heart out of you, and I did. Who do you have now?"

Sherlock gave a meretricious look of broken sadness and muttered gently, "Then why don't you just kill me now? You'll feel better, having defeated my soul and mind as well."

"You're funny." Jim laughed, raising his head high. "How accurate did you think this would be compared to your flash forward? Although, I must say, you did a damn god job acting like John is dead. You nearly had me going."

_"Sherlock!"_ Lestrade's voice went unnoticed through Sherlock. Something was wrong. This wasn't what he saw. "Are... What?... How is this even -"

"Remember who I am!" Jim interrupted. "I didn't want it word for word because that's boring. I thought I'd throw you off in the real situation, and I have! John is still dying and I'm still succeeding, and there's no way you're leaving now." The door behind Sherlock suddenly slammed shut, and before he could even turn around, Ivan Simmons grabbed at his arms, pulling them behind him, and kicked him behind his knee so he fell. As he attempted to get back up he felt Jim kick him sharply in the stomach. His struggling vision flashed white and his knees hit the floor sharply, an unfriendly ringing taking complete control over his hearing.

_This isn't according to plan._

"I'm done, Sherlock," Jim muttered, shaking his head. His voice sounded far away in comparison to the ringing in Sherlock's ears. "I've played with you. I've played with my little chew toy, but now I'm bored. You've bored me." He kneeled next to Sherlock, who still gasped for air. "And, also, you've angered me quite a bit. Always getting on my last nerve until there's nothing left." He then grabbed Sherlock by his shirt and punched him, over and over, each one more and more painful. The attack didn't last long, but neither did Sherlock; he soon fell to the floor, unconscious.

When he finally came to, his body was in so much pain that he couldn't move his head to look for someone. "J..." He attempted to speak but broke into coughs and chokes. He noticed that he lied on the floor, straight on his back.

"I first fell in love with the idea of murder when I was seven years old," Jim suddenly spoke, his voice interrupting the hazy silence in the room. "I played a fun game of cops and robbers with an old friend of mine, and as the robber, I decided to make myself a knife out of paper. But you know kids, always careless, even with the simplest tasks. I was about to cry when I realized the paper cut me, but the blood? That deep, haunting crimson sparked something new in me. I loved the way it stained the paper blade. I knew I wanted to see more of that crimson, so I decided I would, right then and there."

Once Jim's tale was complete and Sherlock's breath was back, he tried to get up.

"Woah now," Jim said as he suddenly showed beside Sherlock, pressing his foot on his shoulder so he couldn't move. "I never said I was done with you."

The dizzy movement in the room began to settle and some of the pain started to go numb. "Wh..." He took a sharp breath. "Where's Lest...rade?"

"Either looking for you or helping John." Jim kneeled next to Sherlock, a small knife in his hand. "He won't find you, though. We're almost out of time."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"The second flash forward, of course." He furrowed his brow. "Oh, right. You don't know. Of course you don't."

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and the sting he got in return confirmed the nose to be broken. "So there's another... Why?"

"Why not?" Jim sat down next to him, fondling with the knife. It had a clever design carved into the blade, what appeared to be rose petals drifting in silver lines of gentle wind. It seemed too sophisticated for a man like James Moriarty. "This one will be a lot more powerful. If I'm correct, it'll last around ten minutes, and the flash forward will take place several years in the future."

"Who controls the flash forwards? And how do they work?"

"Don't look at me for those answers!" Jim shrugged and poked the floor with the knife's tip. "I hardly know any of this stuff. I only know what I know now from my friend Simon, but I haven't heard from him in a while." His tone suddenly changed, and he smiled at Sherlock. "He hooked me up with protection from the flash forward. He used it, too. You wouldn't know about Suspect Zero, though, being that you don't watch the telly." Jim smiled keenly as he slipped his hand into his pocket, a dangerous look in his cold, black eyes. "A ring."

"What's a ring going to do?" Sherlock laughed, and Jim pulled a black ring from the pocket. "You'd be surprised," he responded. "I think he said it's a quantum entanglement device or something rather, and it'll keep me awake."

"Nonsense..." He stared desperately at the ring. _But what if it does work?_ "The science you're speaking of is unrealistic. No one...could create something like that, not in this lifetime."

"You may as well start believing in it," Jim answered with a smile. "You had a flash forward. For the most part, it came true. That's the technology out there, Sherlock. You've been missing out this whole time, but there's so much more to learn." Finally, he sat up, balanced on his knees, and twirled the knife carelessly in his hand. "What should I do with you first? We only have but a couple more minutes, so I need to start planning, yes? And I'm pretty sure John is dead by now, so, you have nowhere to go."

Sherlock sucked in a frustrated breath and, with all his energy, leaned up and lunged forward at Jim. With great force he pushed him onto the ground and clutched onto his shirt with one hand and tried to steal the knife away with the other. Jim, taken aback, held onto the knife as tight as he could. "Dammit, Ivan!" he yelled, just before Sherlock could grab hold of the knife and yank it from Jim's grasp. He smiled satisfactorily just until the pain dipped into him.

As Jim laughed happily, he scooted away and got back to his feet. Sherlock heard the knife fall to the cold floor but didn't feel it, hardly felt anything except for the pain in his back. Then he heard the unpleasant sound of Ivan's knife pulling out of him slowly. He fell to the floor with a punctual thud.

"You failed, Sherlock." Jim stood above him, the smile gone but the victorious glow a part of him. "Face it: you're done for. We've got fifteen seconds until the next blackout, and you can't even breathe hardly. Sorry, _dear._"

Sherlock laughed, meaning it for the first time in a long line of fake laughs and chuckles. "Oh, I got what I wanted. I haven't failed. It was you."

Jim's eyes widened. "No." He shoved his hands in both pockets. "No! You...what the hell?! How..."

"Looking for something?" Sherlock smiled and waved his hand, and there was the ring, securely on his finger.

"You -" Jim growled, but at the perfect timing, he collapsed onto the floor, just as everyone else in the world did.

Sherlock took a deep breath and, after a distressing struggle, got to his feet. He could feel the blood from his back getting soaked up by his shirt, and upon standing, the pain sharpened. He stumbled, momentarily, but he regained posture and went for the door.

Not far from the previous room did he find Lestrade - lying on the floor, of course - who hadn't been far from finding Sherlock and the others. Sherlock walked past him and headed for the largest room, where John would be waiting.

John wasn't in the same position as he had been when Sherlock first discovered him; Lestrade had clearly tried to revive him before looking for Sherlock. Sherlock knelt down next to him and, gladly, found a pulse thumping in his neck. He wasn't dead, not yet. A sense of relief satisfied Sherlock, but it wasn't over yet. John could easily die within a ten-minute blackout. Sherlock slid his arms underneath him and lifted him from the ground with his remaining strength, and they headed over to the ambulance that waited outside of the building.

"John." Sherlock laid him inside the ambulance and looked for something - anything - he could use to help his friend. "You're going to be alright. You..." His throat felt like sandpaper when he attempted to swallow. "I'm going to get you out..." A wave of dizziness slammed into Sherlock and he suddenly felt the pavement against his face, briefly before the world shut down all around him.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

_**September 06, 2012**_

_** I know it's been a while since I've updated this thing, but I doubt many of my viewers had time to check up on it, anyway. I think we can all agree It's been one hell of a year, and it will only get crazier from here on out. At least we have ten years to worry instead of six months, right?**_

_** What it is that I can truly tell all of you right now is: THANK YOU. Thank you for, whenever possible, taking the time to log on and read about my adventures with Sherlock. This blogging thing is therapeutic for me, and I have needed for the past several months due to the blackouts.**_

_** I'll go into detail later, as I am rather busy tonight, but I may as well fill you in. Many of you are curious as to what happened to me in the end, seeing as I had no flash forward. Obviously I survived, but by a stroke of luck. Thanks to Moriarty, none of us really had the future we had expected, but instead had one with details changed here and there. It was close enough, though, and still a remarkable story for me to tell. Anyway, Sherlock is the one who saved my life. He had all the hell beaten out of him by Moriarty, but he still managed to trick him. Imagine that! He finally tricked the bastard. Moriarty had this weird ring thing that, upon wearing, kept the wearer from falling asleep during the blackout (for those of you who pay attention to the news more than I, Suspect Zero wore a ring just like that, which is how he was up and walking around in the stands at that game). However, Sherlock snagged it from him, and while everyone else was unconscious, he brought me to an ambulance, even though he was dying from a stabbing wound in his back. The EMTs inside gave me care as soon as they awakened, and that is why I'm here, at my desk, having the pleasure of telling people I've never met about my personal life. Moriarty is now a major threat, because he escaped and God knows where he is or what he's planning.**_

_** As for Sherlock?**_

_** I am most grateful that he survived. He is currently in a wheelchair, and may never leave it; however, the doctors have high hopes for him, and with enough work, he'll be back on his feet within a year or so. You can't imagine how lame it is when Lestrade calls for a case, and Sherlock yells "WHEEL ME, JOHN!" I miss being angry at him for running off.**_

"Blogging?" Sherlock had wheeled himself next to John and began reading the new entry. "Things are looking up, then."

"Yes, the-"

"You told them about my demand for you to wheel me?!"

"Well, ye-"

"Delete it! _Now!_"

John laughed and pushed gently at Sherlock's wheelchair, causing him to roll away from him. "It's for reader's entertainment, alright? You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"I will get back at you for this," Sherlock muttered, struggling to roll himself over to his violin case. "I happen to know where you sleep at night."

"And I you," John chuckled. "And I can actually walk around."

"I will too, hopefully." Sherlock unzipped the case and pulled out the violin, a new one he had purchased three months ago. He missed his old one, which had burned in the flat fire, but it hadn't taken him long to master his favorite pieces on the new one. He plucked the strings carelessly and glanced at John. "I've got another operation tomorrow, and the results of this one almost _determine_ whether or not I will ever walk again. Optimism is the key, dear Watson."

John nodded to himself and said, "I thought you hated optimists."

"I've found their methods of thinking rather...interesting, lately." Sherlock pulled the bow out of the case, not even bothering to polish it. He smiled briefly at John before beginning his favorite Bach piece, filling the remodeled flat with sweet music. John smiled to himself before turning back to his computer.

_**Anyway, Sherlock just reminded me of his operation tomorrow, so I need to get off rather soon and make sure he doesn't steal any food from the fridge like last time. Consulting detectives don't look so impressive when they're projectile vomiting on a doctor and two very pretty nurses.**_

_** Well, after the worst few months ever, I'm glad to report that we are all, amazingly, okay. No casualties, and hopefully no permanent damage. To the rest of you, I hope you are all doing well with a good status report.**_

John sighed happily, the feeling of weight being lifted off his chest. He wished he could have typed that up sooner, but still, it was done. He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and listened to the sweet violin melody please his entire being.

"John."

His eyes opened to find Sherlock had wheeled up in front of him, the violin laying on the coffee table. He must have drifted off to sleep, like he often did. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm curious." He tapped his fingers on the handle of the wheelchair; probably the melody of that Bach piece, John guessed. "That last blackout. Did you have a flash forward, or was there nothingness again?"

The question threw John off; he hadn't even thought about that, amazingly. He had been so busy that it was the last thing on his mind. "Yes, I actually did this time."

"What happened?"

A small smile crept to his face. "I'd rather not think about it. Not that it was bad or anything. But now I know...well, I ought to be dead right now. Things change, though. We both learned that. So it doesn't matter what happened because if I want to change it, I will when the time comes."

"Did it have to do with Moriarty? I know he's gone somewhere and no one has any idea where he is. He could be plotting something. It would help if you told me."

"I know. But still, I feel like I can handle it this time. No worries."

Sherlock nodded in thought. "Sounds reasonable." The new phone in his pocket vibrated; he wouldn't have felt it against his thigh, but he noticed the noise. "Hopefully Lestrade with a case," Sherlock mused as he pulled up the messages. If he had the ability to stand, he would've had to sit down after reading the text. "John."

"What?"

Sherlock looked at him wearily, his breath quickening, and handed him the mobile. John's brow furrowed in confusion, but his heart nearly gave out when his brain computed the message.

_** I know it's been a while, but an evil genius does need time to plan something wicked. But anyway: what an INTERESTING flash forward! I can't wait to see you both in ten years!**_

_**-JM**_

**Yeah I just needed to end it. That was kind of cheesy, and not at all my style. But it's done and I can finally put focus on other stories in progress. I've actually been working on my own story, separate from FanFiction, and I really think it's good! But I'm taking a break and doing fanfics to relax my head, so here it is.**

**Thanks to everyone for reading! R&R please :)**


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